Few things in the universe interest Kaliera. The weak little mortals around her dying, the way their blood spills so readily (and so red, too), certainly perches at the top of the short list, followed closely by the study of the emotions and reactions of others. As a being of divine blood driven purely by her lust for power, the whimsical actions of those acting on pure emotion, not meticulous planning, amuses her but also holds her interest in way she can't quite explain, the sort of subconscious, fleeting wistfulness one feels occasionally when staring at something of lesser intelligence and thus less afflicted by the stresses as tribulations that come with a higher state of mind.
Not that she would ever admit that. No, Kaliera, oh so beautiful and divine being summoned to a realm far, far away from her home, would never lower herself to the mortals' height by admitting such a thing as that, but she does occasionally allow herself a few private seconds to wonder how it feels to be a mortal, someone lesser.
Then she remembers her unrivaled power, and all those frivolous fantasies fall away from her. Why would she ever want to be a mortal? Kaliera, the great, the powerful, the only, has everything she needs.
Except one person, the person at the top of her list. Zyran, adopted son of the leader of the Corrupt, has managed to escape her grasp for far too long. The thought brings a scowl to her mortal-blood red lips. She has not lost a battle in her life, emotional or physical, and she will not lose this one, not after all she's been through.
First she gets exiled from her clan for treachery against the throne, a memory that sends dull throbs of anger pulsing through her veins and distracts her from finishing her thought. All she can think about now is that horrendous betrayal by the few people she knew she could trust, and as she strides towards Erinio's office, gold and silver eyes narrowed in burning, bitter hatred, her high heels click against the smooth black stone with every step, warning all of who is arriving and what mood she is in.
Fast, hard clicks that reverberate mean Kaliera should be avoided lest she takes her anger out on whoever crosses her path. Full of fear, the usually bloodlust-filled and hate-driven soldiers of the Corrupt, men and women who have stared into the depths of Hell and laughed, quickly clear the hall to their leader's office while Erinio merely gazes out at his empire.
After all, Kaliera knows very well that she cannot defeat him. Even if she could, the consequence of such an action would be too great for even her to ignore, all of her plans crumbling into dust around her in the blink of an eye. Such facts don't stop her from being mad, of course, and making empty threats against his life, but he always found her angry state satisfying, the sight of such an emotionless and pompous being succumbing to the most basic and primal of emotions because of him stroking an odd place inside of his soul.
"Why did you let him go?" Kaliera hisses as she suddenly bursts into his office. The stone door hits the hall and crumbles into gold and silver dust, and as he blankly regards the remnants of his door, Erinio fights a twisted smirk. Enraged enough to use her powers on a door? Kaliera certainly seems rather attached to his son, the Corrupt man muses.
Perhaps that mistake will turn into a bargaining chip. "Because, my dear Kaliera," Erinio purrs, his voice invoking memories in Kaliera's mind of an age long past, "Zyran has yet to play his part in this plan. So long as he is with Droenix, the Corruption already planted in our dear little summoner will flourish. Eventually, he will come to us of his own accord, my son following straight behind." Erinio regards Kaliera with a mocking gaze as she silently fumes, mainly to hide his uncertainty as opposed to encouraging the fury flaming in her eyes. This situation has gotten slightly of hand, he admits to himself as he turns away from Kaliera.
"You're just making an excuse for your mistake. Stop hiding behind lies like a coward, admit that you messed up, and fix it like a man," the pseudo-goddess gracelessly snarls, her composure completely lost, at the turned back of Erinio. She knows every detail of his plan (or so she thinks, at least), and this certainly isn't one of them.
Of course, as a being of higher intelligence accustomed to dealing with others like her, she often forgets that mortals act on emotions and plans dealing with such flaky creatures must be as fluid as possible. Thus the success of a strategist rests both in long-term planning as well as the ability to think on the spot, a skill that Kaliera has never had to develop and cannot seem to understand. Even knowing this, Erinio feels the barest threads of irritation weave their way through him, and he bites back a quick retort as he slowly turns to face her.
"I am a strategist, a leader, a mage—many things, my dear, but not a seer. No, I lack the ability to foretell what exactly will happen, and so I am forced to be ready to make adjustments to my plans as needed. In this case, it is needed, even if you don't see how," Erinio explains with an easy smile, hiding with ease his growing irritation. To be in such a position requires a certain level of patience and an expectation of some level of parenting others, fixing their problems and soothing their doubts with gentle touches, yes, but Erinio finds it ironic that two divine beings, of all those under his command or allied with him, are the most childish, petty, and lazy ones of them all, wanting him to hand them everything and fix all their problems without having to do anything in return.
Still, like the generous and graceful king he is, Erinio shall suffer silently and with a smile (or devious smirk) gracing his face the entire time, and as Kaliera stares at him, anger dying the longer she gazes, she finds herself wondering if maybe she's lost a few more battles than she thinks.
"Maybe I'll just go find him myself," she suggests coyly, her pride threatened by the thought that she could possibly lose to such a lowly mortal. Erinio's jaw tightens at her words, and he flicks his hand imperceptibly. In response, black vines quickly grow out of the ground in the door way and block the exit.
"You will do no such thing! If you dare even exit the base, I will not hesitate to destroy everything you have—including your powers. Just be patient, and you will have him," Erinio snarls at the startled Kaliera. She gazes back at him, scowls, and nods in defeat. The Corrupt leader allows the vines to drop and watches every step of the pseudo-goddess as she stalks out of his office.
Now all that's left is to replace his door. With a sigh, the Corrupt leader pads over to the pile of silver and gold dust and examines them thoughtfully. After a few seconds, he touches them carefully; as soon as his finger makes contact, he jerks it back from the electrifying feeling.
"It seems like my little beast has left me a gift," Erinio darkly muses as the dust arranges itself into one neat pile on his desk. With some muttered words, a replacement door forms in his doorway, and he grins darkly as he glides over to his desk and pulls out a glass vial, black vines delicately tracing their way around the thin cylinder.
One person's loss, another's win. Black, cunning eyes watch as the dust settles into its new container, and as new plans form in his mind, Erinio safely tucks the vial of unspeakable power into one of the several hidden pockets in his clothes. The plans have changed once again, and it seems to him that a certain pawn of his has become more bothersome than she is useful.
But how to eliminate her? His mind goes through plan after plan until it arrives on the perfect one, and with a malicious smirk, the Corrupt leader calls for Kaliera. He hears every harsh click of her heels on the stone ground, and as she cautiously pushes his door open and peers in, his smirk smooths into an easy, charming smile.
"I've been thinking, and I have come to the conclusion that you may hunt and retrieve Zyran and Droenix. If either of them are harmed, well, my earlier promise stands," the Corrupt leader drawls as he turns to face the large window in his office. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see as a victorious expression spreads over Kaliera's face, and she simply nods before exiting. As soon as the door closes, his smile drops into a disgusted scowl.
He can't stand such arrogance and insolence. Feeling more vengeful than before, he summons Kismus, and as she reappears in his office with an irritable look on her face, he resists the urge to snap at her.
"There is someone who threatens the success of our plan and the safety of your son, which would threaten your reputation with the other gods. Unfortunately, I have too many matters to attend here and cannot spare any resources to deal with the issue; I am sure that such a small task is not too overwhelming for someone of your powers, is it?" Erinio purrs smoothly. Thankfully, at the mention of her endangered reputation, the goddess feels more than encouraged enough to take action, and as soon as he informs her of the threat, she's vanished.
Sometimes it's just a little too easy. Erinio elegantly sits in his chair and gazes out over his empire. The vial and the dust comes back into his mind, the key ingredients to creating a completely loyal and immensely powerful minion, and he wonders who he should award the honor to. Faces flash through his mind along with reasons against it before his mind settles on one certain face.
Droenix Flamebreath. It's perfect! Someone to summon whatever he wants at will, high political standing, immense magical capabilities… not to mention an incentive to join and remain loyal. A dark chuckle escapes him as everything flows into place.
It certainly seems odd that someone's greatest strength could also be their greatest weakness. Erinio muses upon the end of Kaliera, her inability to understand emotions and the need for fluidity when dealing with mortals only bringing her demise sooner as opposed to later. Such is the way of life, he supposed. The fluid, the adaptable, survive; the rigid, the unadaptable, die.
A Myriad of Stories
Moderator: Tea House Moderators
Re: A Myriad of Stories
The first time I've ever been inspired to write a sequel to one of these wow. Follows after "Expendable," but it's not really essential to read that before reading this. Also, just a heads up, I'm probably about to get really inactive. I'm not dead, just suffering. In any case, expect a barrage of these once I get back.
Everything crashes down around him. He supposes he should have realized that she was suffering, but he pushes those thoughts away. Later, he'll stay up and think about how it's all his fault. For now, though, he'll stand here and silently support his pregnant wife as she mourns the loss of her best friend.
His mistress.
The first time, he had been drunk out of his mind after a disastrous date with his current wife, and she had been just as drunk. They hadn't mean for it to happen, but somehow they ended up in a deserted alley behind the club, which then led into him taking her back to his one-room apartment.
A week afterwards, he moved in with his girlfriend. She had asked him to move on their last date, which had been why it went so wrong, and he refused. After their romp, though, the guilt overwhelmed him every time he walked in, so he moved out.
The second time occurred around the holidays. She had been visiting her family a couple of states away while his parents still hated him for not following their footsteps, so he spent most of Christmas Eve in a bar. When his girlfriend's best friend showed up, he was only a little drunk, but they still ended up together—in her apartment, this time.
He still remembers the guilt he felt. He remembers all of it, actually, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget it, not now. Those memories will be forever printed on his heart, like his name was on hers.
In all honesty, he knew that she had a crush on him, but he just wasn't interested. She had been too… too not his type. Not that that would have been too hard, he had very specific requirements for the girls he got with, and meeting his current wife had been a fluke.
Sometimes he wonders if it really is a mistake, him being with her. Hell, he wonders if him living is a mistake, and if so, would him fixing that mistake just be another mistake? With a sigh, he shakes those thoughts off and leads his pregnant wife towards their SUV, a safe family car.
The third time it happened, he had just fought with his wife over some strange texts that he had seen in her phone while taking pictures of her, just like she asked. She accused him of snooping and not trusting her before he even really had a chance to say anything, and before he could retaliate, her best friend (his mistress) hurried over and, glaring at him, led his weeping girlfriend away. Everyone accused him, demonized him, and he, full of pent-up anger and stress, had gone to her apartment in hopes of talking to her.
They didn't talk. As soon as she stepped in, something inside him snapped. Afterwards, he realized how rough he had been, and, ashamed, he slunk home to wallow in his own self-hatred.
After that, the issue of the texts had been dropped. Until now, that is. As he glances over at his wife, who texts away on her phone, he casually inquires about the person she's talking to. Almost immediately, she turns the phone off and brings up a quick lie, something about just messaging a family member.
But is it a lie? Maybe he's just being paranoid. He nods and attempts to make some small talk, but she just shoots him down—too exhausted, she claims—and ignores every effort he makes. When he continues to try to talk, she reaches over and turns the music up.
The fourth time, their wedding was in a week, and his current wife had been distant. She, as always, just said that she was stressed and needed some time alone, and he was left alone in their house with nothing but his fears as companions. He had taken some time off of work for the wedding and consequent honey moon, his friends were all busy preparing for the wedding, and his wife was… relaxing.
Even now, he can't remember how he got to her house, but he remembers standing in front of the door, soaking wet and almost hysterical from all the doubts in his mind. He remembers the way she let him in and tried her best to assuage his fears, remembers the bittersweet smile as she talked about how much her best friend loved—loves, she still does, it's loves—him.
He even remembers the way they had stumbled to the bedroom as they succumbed to their desires. He also remembers how angry and hurt she was afterwards, how she confronted him, and he remembers how he just called her trash and left.
He thought it would have been best. It sounds stupid, he knows, but he figured that making her hate him was the only way she would ever get over him. Sometimes, he wonders what would have happened if he hadn't just walked away.
Of course, those are also the nights that his pregnant wife goes out somewhere—she just needs time to relax, do you know how tiring you are?—without him. He doesn't let it show, has never let any of his emotions show, but he's an insecure, scared little boy that can't deal with his emotions and runs away from anything close to personal.
Really, he's a coward. He runs away from his problems, and he's all the worst because he knows what he's doing. Still, he does it all the same.
The fourth time, his wife, who had been four-and-a-half months pregnant, had been difficult. He knew that pregnancy wouldn't be fun, but he hadn't realized how difficult. He and his wife hadn't been intimate in months—ever since the wedding, she had been getting more and more random headaches—and his work had been worse than ever.
It's no excuse, he knows that. He can say whatever he want, but the truth of it is that he chose what he did. He chose to go to her house.
Once again, he tries to engage his wife. This time, he asks her if she's hungry, but all he receives is silence. Struggling to keep his composure, he gives up on distracting himself from the storm of thoughts in his mind and succumbs to it all.
What is he doing wrong? Why can't he just be happy? Why can't he just… just not fuck up? It's almost like he goes out of his way to make the wrong choice every single time! Maybe his parents were right… maybe he really isn't good for anything after all.
As he pulls into the driveway of their modest home, he sits in the car, even after his wife has gotten out. She simply tells him to have fun and be back before dinner, and he doesn't bother to respond before driving away. Instead of heading towards a bar, he goes to a small park and finds a spot with as little people as possible.
Technically, he could have achieved an ever more complete isolation at home, but his house, the place he shares with his pregnant wife, feels suffocating, like he's trapped and can never escape. While he wants to believe that it's just his guilt getting to him, he can't help but wonder if maybe part of the trapped feeling isn't because of his wife.
He loves her, there's no doubt about that, but does she love him? The more he thinks about it, the less convinced he becomes of her devotion. Of course, it could just be a coping tactic to assuage his own guilt, but… he's just so confused.
Which, really, is also his fault. All he has to do is just talk to her, but he's not enough of a man to even do that. Not a man, nope, not a man just a coward. Never a man, he'll never be a man; his father was right. He can never be a man.
It isn't until somebody comes over and politely but firmly insists he leaves that he realizes his rather intense gaze had drifted to a lovely family having a picnic. Something flashes in his mind, white hot anger—why can't he have that, what makes them better?—as he stares for a few more seconds before turning back towards his car.
Behind him, he hears how the man informs his wife that the "creep" is taken care of, like he personally fought some life-endangering threat, and his fists clench. For a few seconds, he fantasizes about turning around and showing that man how dangerous he really can be.
Those are just fantasies, though, because he's too much of a coward to do anything. His cowardliness killed somebody. Fuck, he killed somebody! How's that for "dangerous" and "creepy," huh?
Thoughts swirl in his head, steadily growing more and more bitter and hateful, as he stalks towards his car, his stupid fucking SUV for the stupid baby that probably isn't his because, well, why would it be? His jaw tightens to the point where he thinks he may break or injure something, but the muscles won't relax, no matter how hard he tries.
Should he even drive? He ponders the thought for just a few seconds before he slips into the driver's seat, which goes against logic. Really, driving this tense and agitated is a horrendous and dangerous thing, but so fucking what? Life sucks and death is the only release, so isn't he doing people a favor by killing them?
Even then, he takes a few seconds to listen to the radio, take deep breaths, and calm down, if only just a bit. He knows that his frustration and guilt are brewing a bad storm inside of him and that he needs to get home before it begins to rain. This is a storm he needs to suffer through alone, just like all his other storms.
Except he didn't suffer through those alone. The thought turns his anger into a sudden rush of sadness as he begins the drive home, which subsequently turns into emptiness halfway there. He habitually checks the time, and with a hint of surprise, he realizes that it's about three hours before dinner. Usually, he stays out until dinner, sometimes an hour or so past.
Well, it's okay to be going to his home this early. Why wouldn't it be? His wife wouldn't be doing anything wrong, she's pregnant! What could she do? Images flash into his mind, unwanted images that feel like needles digging into his heart with every beat. He inhales sharply and considers heading somewhere else, the bar maybe, but he shakes those thoughts away.
He'll know today. He won't stand behind ignorance anymore, won't run away from the truth, won't be a coward. Today, he will prove to himself that his wife isn't cheating, and he will confess to her his sins. If she leaves him, well, that's precisely what he deserves, and if she stays, they can work on building a newer, stronger relationship with any of the previous lies.
God, he's going to puke. Before long, he's sitting in his driveway and wondering if that weird black car belongs to one of her friends or somebody from work or maybe it's a legal person. His hands shake as he sits, and getting out of the car suddenly seems like an impossible task.
Why did he ever do this? He changed his mind, he wants to go. He don't want to know! Just like when he was a kid, when his parents would fight, he wants to hide in his closet and pretend that he somehow travelled to some alternate dimension or alien planet or anywhere but here and the people fighting aren't his parents.
Still, despite his terror and shakiness, he walks up to the door. His front door. Instinctually, he raises his hand to knock, and he curses quietly as he recognizes that he's already given up and admitted defeat. What else could he do, though? He cheated on his wife with her best-friend, and now her best-friend is dead—because of him.
It goes further back than that, though, doesn't it? He lost before any of it began, lost the moment he took his first breath. He blinks and shakes his head; he needs to focus. Taking a deep, calming breath, he twists the door knob and slowly pushes his way into the house.
Silence. Wait, no… yes. Silence. Right? He stands there, rooted to the spot, and tries his best to hear any sound, but at this point, he can't decipher between reality and paranoia. His legs threaten to give out beneath him as he slowly inches his way towards the room he shares with his wife.
All the lights are off. A cloud blocks the sunlight, and everything becomes much darker. His breath echoes in his ears as he stares at the long hallway before him, growing longer with every pulse of blood through his frozen body. One step, two steps, three steps… every step brings him closer and closer to the truth.
By the time he's standing in front of the door, his breathing is too loud for him to hear anything else, but when he holds his breath, the blood rushing through his ears drowns anything else out. His hand hovers over the door knob, and he forces himself to turn it and step inside.
At first, the room is so dark that he can't see anything, but as his eyes adjust, he zeroes in on the shapes on the bed. Reality fades away, and he feels like he's just watching a movie. This isn't happening to him, this can't be happening to him!
Still feeling like an outsider, he flips the light switch casually. The two shapes on the bed look over at them, horror on their faces, and he just stares at them. His wife looks like she's about to cry as he asks how long. The questions hangs in the air for a few seconds, unanswered, and he firmly repeats it.
Once again, the question goes unanswered. Something in him snaps, and he shouts the question. His wife bursts into tears and chokes out the answer between sobs: before he even moved in.
Before the first time. Before it all. Their entire… he… oh, God, he's going to be sick. He rushes to the guest bathroom, and by the time he walks out, both people are sitting on his couch, fully dressed and all over each other. For a few seconds, it feels like he's the other one and the other guy is the husband.
As he sits across from them, they stare at each other. He starts off with a bitter remark, and that turns into him confessing everything. His wife (ex-wife) stares at him in openmouthed shock before she begins to release a barrage of insults at him.
How hypocritical, he muses, that her cheating is his fault for not paying enough attention to her while his cheating is his fault for being a male. Instead of saying anything, though, he just silently walks out of the house. Before he walks out the door, he turns to the happy couple and informs them that they can have everything, and he'll just leave without any trouble.
Why prolong the pain? He's a coward. A no-good screw up that's worth nothing. Just like his parents. Just like everybody always told him. Even as a child, the teachers would tell his parents not to expect too much, would always just write him off as another worthless delinquent, and eventually he did, too.
Not that it's their fault. God, how could it be their fault? It's his fault. He chose all this! With a sigh, he calls a cab to take him to the nearest bar, and even though he has nowhere else to go, he finds himself smiling over it all.
It's odd, the entire thing. He didn't end his relationship with his wife because he didn't want it to be just another screw-up, didn't want to give his parents something else to shove in his face, didn't want yet another black stain in his past, yet here he is.
Is this karma for everything he's ever done? He ponders the question over a glass of something (anything) alcoholic, but after the third or fourth drink, those questions and everything else fades to the back of his mind. By the sixth or seventh, he's stumbling out the doors of the bar without a destination in mind, and because he doesn't really have anywhere to go, he doesn't bother calling a cab.
If he were sober, he would head to the nearest hotel. Of course, he's not sober, so he finds himself drunkenly walking through the streets to a destination unknown. Somehow, he finds himself stumbling alongside a rather deserted road, and for a few seconds, he swears he can see the blurry face of his wife's dead friend across the road.
As he chases ghosts across empty roads, a truck hurtles along. The rider glances over at the pretty little figure sitting next to him, and when he looks forwards, he suddenly notices the person stumbling across the road—right in front of him. He slams on the brakes; it's too late.
The truck slams into the drunken man, and while the passengers of the vehicle don't suffer any injuries, the other person becomes fatally injured. In his last moments, he watches as the ghost of his mistress, his greatest mistake, smiles at him. Her name gurgles in his throat—his last breath.
A day of lasts indeed.
Everything crashes down around him. He supposes he should have realized that she was suffering, but he pushes those thoughts away. Later, he'll stay up and think about how it's all his fault. For now, though, he'll stand here and silently support his pregnant wife as she mourns the loss of her best friend.
His mistress.
The first time, he had been drunk out of his mind after a disastrous date with his current wife, and she had been just as drunk. They hadn't mean for it to happen, but somehow they ended up in a deserted alley behind the club, which then led into him taking her back to his one-room apartment.
A week afterwards, he moved in with his girlfriend. She had asked him to move on their last date, which had been why it went so wrong, and he refused. After their romp, though, the guilt overwhelmed him every time he walked in, so he moved out.
The second time occurred around the holidays. She had been visiting her family a couple of states away while his parents still hated him for not following their footsteps, so he spent most of Christmas Eve in a bar. When his girlfriend's best friend showed up, he was only a little drunk, but they still ended up together—in her apartment, this time.
He still remembers the guilt he felt. He remembers all of it, actually, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget it, not now. Those memories will be forever printed on his heart, like his name was on hers.
In all honesty, he knew that she had a crush on him, but he just wasn't interested. She had been too… too not his type. Not that that would have been too hard, he had very specific requirements for the girls he got with, and meeting his current wife had been a fluke.
Sometimes he wonders if it really is a mistake, him being with her. Hell, he wonders if him living is a mistake, and if so, would him fixing that mistake just be another mistake? With a sigh, he shakes those thoughts off and leads his pregnant wife towards their SUV, a safe family car.
The third time it happened, he had just fought with his wife over some strange texts that he had seen in her phone while taking pictures of her, just like she asked. She accused him of snooping and not trusting her before he even really had a chance to say anything, and before he could retaliate, her best friend (his mistress) hurried over and, glaring at him, led his weeping girlfriend away. Everyone accused him, demonized him, and he, full of pent-up anger and stress, had gone to her apartment in hopes of talking to her.
They didn't talk. As soon as she stepped in, something inside him snapped. Afterwards, he realized how rough he had been, and, ashamed, he slunk home to wallow in his own self-hatred.
After that, the issue of the texts had been dropped. Until now, that is. As he glances over at his wife, who texts away on her phone, he casually inquires about the person she's talking to. Almost immediately, she turns the phone off and brings up a quick lie, something about just messaging a family member.
But is it a lie? Maybe he's just being paranoid. He nods and attempts to make some small talk, but she just shoots him down—too exhausted, she claims—and ignores every effort he makes. When he continues to try to talk, she reaches over and turns the music up.
The fourth time, their wedding was in a week, and his current wife had been distant. She, as always, just said that she was stressed and needed some time alone, and he was left alone in their house with nothing but his fears as companions. He had taken some time off of work for the wedding and consequent honey moon, his friends were all busy preparing for the wedding, and his wife was… relaxing.
Even now, he can't remember how he got to her house, but he remembers standing in front of the door, soaking wet and almost hysterical from all the doubts in his mind. He remembers the way she let him in and tried her best to assuage his fears, remembers the bittersweet smile as she talked about how much her best friend loved—loves, she still does, it's loves—him.
He even remembers the way they had stumbled to the bedroom as they succumbed to their desires. He also remembers how angry and hurt she was afterwards, how she confronted him, and he remembers how he just called her trash and left.
He thought it would have been best. It sounds stupid, he knows, but he figured that making her hate him was the only way she would ever get over him. Sometimes, he wonders what would have happened if he hadn't just walked away.
Of course, those are also the nights that his pregnant wife goes out somewhere—she just needs time to relax, do you know how tiring you are?—without him. He doesn't let it show, has never let any of his emotions show, but he's an insecure, scared little boy that can't deal with his emotions and runs away from anything close to personal.
Really, he's a coward. He runs away from his problems, and he's all the worst because he knows what he's doing. Still, he does it all the same.
The fourth time, his wife, who had been four-and-a-half months pregnant, had been difficult. He knew that pregnancy wouldn't be fun, but he hadn't realized how difficult. He and his wife hadn't been intimate in months—ever since the wedding, she had been getting more and more random headaches—and his work had been worse than ever.
It's no excuse, he knows that. He can say whatever he want, but the truth of it is that he chose what he did. He chose to go to her house.
Once again, he tries to engage his wife. This time, he asks her if she's hungry, but all he receives is silence. Struggling to keep his composure, he gives up on distracting himself from the storm of thoughts in his mind and succumbs to it all.
What is he doing wrong? Why can't he just be happy? Why can't he just… just not fuck up? It's almost like he goes out of his way to make the wrong choice every single time! Maybe his parents were right… maybe he really isn't good for anything after all.
As he pulls into the driveway of their modest home, he sits in the car, even after his wife has gotten out. She simply tells him to have fun and be back before dinner, and he doesn't bother to respond before driving away. Instead of heading towards a bar, he goes to a small park and finds a spot with as little people as possible.
Technically, he could have achieved an ever more complete isolation at home, but his house, the place he shares with his pregnant wife, feels suffocating, like he's trapped and can never escape. While he wants to believe that it's just his guilt getting to him, he can't help but wonder if maybe part of the trapped feeling isn't because of his wife.
He loves her, there's no doubt about that, but does she love him? The more he thinks about it, the less convinced he becomes of her devotion. Of course, it could just be a coping tactic to assuage his own guilt, but… he's just so confused.
Which, really, is also his fault. All he has to do is just talk to her, but he's not enough of a man to even do that. Not a man, nope, not a man just a coward. Never a man, he'll never be a man; his father was right. He can never be a man.
It isn't until somebody comes over and politely but firmly insists he leaves that he realizes his rather intense gaze had drifted to a lovely family having a picnic. Something flashes in his mind, white hot anger—why can't he have that, what makes them better?—as he stares for a few more seconds before turning back towards his car.
Behind him, he hears how the man informs his wife that the "creep" is taken care of, like he personally fought some life-endangering threat, and his fists clench. For a few seconds, he fantasizes about turning around and showing that man how dangerous he really can be.
Those are just fantasies, though, because he's too much of a coward to do anything. His cowardliness killed somebody. Fuck, he killed somebody! How's that for "dangerous" and "creepy," huh?
Thoughts swirl in his head, steadily growing more and more bitter and hateful, as he stalks towards his car, his stupid fucking SUV for the stupid baby that probably isn't his because, well, why would it be? His jaw tightens to the point where he thinks he may break or injure something, but the muscles won't relax, no matter how hard he tries.
Should he even drive? He ponders the thought for just a few seconds before he slips into the driver's seat, which goes against logic. Really, driving this tense and agitated is a horrendous and dangerous thing, but so fucking what? Life sucks and death is the only release, so isn't he doing people a favor by killing them?
Even then, he takes a few seconds to listen to the radio, take deep breaths, and calm down, if only just a bit. He knows that his frustration and guilt are brewing a bad storm inside of him and that he needs to get home before it begins to rain. This is a storm he needs to suffer through alone, just like all his other storms.
Except he didn't suffer through those alone. The thought turns his anger into a sudden rush of sadness as he begins the drive home, which subsequently turns into emptiness halfway there. He habitually checks the time, and with a hint of surprise, he realizes that it's about three hours before dinner. Usually, he stays out until dinner, sometimes an hour or so past.
Well, it's okay to be going to his home this early. Why wouldn't it be? His wife wouldn't be doing anything wrong, she's pregnant! What could she do? Images flash into his mind, unwanted images that feel like needles digging into his heart with every beat. He inhales sharply and considers heading somewhere else, the bar maybe, but he shakes those thoughts away.
He'll know today. He won't stand behind ignorance anymore, won't run away from the truth, won't be a coward. Today, he will prove to himself that his wife isn't cheating, and he will confess to her his sins. If she leaves him, well, that's precisely what he deserves, and if she stays, they can work on building a newer, stronger relationship with any of the previous lies.
God, he's going to puke. Before long, he's sitting in his driveway and wondering if that weird black car belongs to one of her friends or somebody from work or maybe it's a legal person. His hands shake as he sits, and getting out of the car suddenly seems like an impossible task.
Why did he ever do this? He changed his mind, he wants to go. He don't want to know! Just like when he was a kid, when his parents would fight, he wants to hide in his closet and pretend that he somehow travelled to some alternate dimension or alien planet or anywhere but here and the people fighting aren't his parents.
Still, despite his terror and shakiness, he walks up to the door. His front door. Instinctually, he raises his hand to knock, and he curses quietly as he recognizes that he's already given up and admitted defeat. What else could he do, though? He cheated on his wife with her best-friend, and now her best-friend is dead—because of him.
It goes further back than that, though, doesn't it? He lost before any of it began, lost the moment he took his first breath. He blinks and shakes his head; he needs to focus. Taking a deep, calming breath, he twists the door knob and slowly pushes his way into the house.
Silence. Wait, no… yes. Silence. Right? He stands there, rooted to the spot, and tries his best to hear any sound, but at this point, he can't decipher between reality and paranoia. His legs threaten to give out beneath him as he slowly inches his way towards the room he shares with his wife.
All the lights are off. A cloud blocks the sunlight, and everything becomes much darker. His breath echoes in his ears as he stares at the long hallway before him, growing longer with every pulse of blood through his frozen body. One step, two steps, three steps… every step brings him closer and closer to the truth.
By the time he's standing in front of the door, his breathing is too loud for him to hear anything else, but when he holds his breath, the blood rushing through his ears drowns anything else out. His hand hovers over the door knob, and he forces himself to turn it and step inside.
At first, the room is so dark that he can't see anything, but as his eyes adjust, he zeroes in on the shapes on the bed. Reality fades away, and he feels like he's just watching a movie. This isn't happening to him, this can't be happening to him!
Still feeling like an outsider, he flips the light switch casually. The two shapes on the bed look over at them, horror on their faces, and he just stares at them. His wife looks like she's about to cry as he asks how long. The questions hangs in the air for a few seconds, unanswered, and he firmly repeats it.
Once again, the question goes unanswered. Something in him snaps, and he shouts the question. His wife bursts into tears and chokes out the answer between sobs: before he even moved in.
Before the first time. Before it all. Their entire… he… oh, God, he's going to be sick. He rushes to the guest bathroom, and by the time he walks out, both people are sitting on his couch, fully dressed and all over each other. For a few seconds, it feels like he's the other one and the other guy is the husband.
As he sits across from them, they stare at each other. He starts off with a bitter remark, and that turns into him confessing everything. His wife (ex-wife) stares at him in openmouthed shock before she begins to release a barrage of insults at him.
How hypocritical, he muses, that her cheating is his fault for not paying enough attention to her while his cheating is his fault for being a male. Instead of saying anything, though, he just silently walks out of the house. Before he walks out the door, he turns to the happy couple and informs them that they can have everything, and he'll just leave without any trouble.
Why prolong the pain? He's a coward. A no-good screw up that's worth nothing. Just like his parents. Just like everybody always told him. Even as a child, the teachers would tell his parents not to expect too much, would always just write him off as another worthless delinquent, and eventually he did, too.
Not that it's their fault. God, how could it be their fault? It's his fault. He chose all this! With a sigh, he calls a cab to take him to the nearest bar, and even though he has nowhere else to go, he finds himself smiling over it all.
It's odd, the entire thing. He didn't end his relationship with his wife because he didn't want it to be just another screw-up, didn't want to give his parents something else to shove in his face, didn't want yet another black stain in his past, yet here he is.
Is this karma for everything he's ever done? He ponders the question over a glass of something (anything) alcoholic, but after the third or fourth drink, those questions and everything else fades to the back of his mind. By the sixth or seventh, he's stumbling out the doors of the bar without a destination in mind, and because he doesn't really have anywhere to go, he doesn't bother calling a cab.
If he were sober, he would head to the nearest hotel. Of course, he's not sober, so he finds himself drunkenly walking through the streets to a destination unknown. Somehow, he finds himself stumbling alongside a rather deserted road, and for a few seconds, he swears he can see the blurry face of his wife's dead friend across the road.
As he chases ghosts across empty roads, a truck hurtles along. The rider glances over at the pretty little figure sitting next to him, and when he looks forwards, he suddenly notices the person stumbling across the road—right in front of him. He slams on the brakes; it's too late.
The truck slams into the drunken man, and while the passengers of the vehicle don't suffer any injuries, the other person becomes fatally injured. In his last moments, he watches as the ghost of his mistress, his greatest mistake, smiles at him. Her name gurgles in his throat—his last breath.
A day of lasts indeed.
Decisions
The city around me hustles to and fro, workers hurrying to their homes as the sun sets. A few guards, armed with spears, swords, and daggers, watch me cautiously as I casually stroll the emptying stone streets, and before long, it's just them and me.
"Nice night, huh?" I question as I glance up at the clear sky, which steadily darkens. The guard next to me doesn't respond and shuffles further away from me. Frowning, I give up on trying to strike up a conversation with anybody and instead continue on my way home, a soft sigh escaping me.
Why do I keep going back? Solar said I could stay with him and Lunar, but… am I really ready to leave everything behind? My steps slowly come to a pause, and I simply stand in the middle of the street and look around. By now, the stars shine brightly overhead while the few streetlights that aren't broken send eerie, flickering light over the street.
Ahead of me lies the path to the home I've been inhabiting for the past few years, a run down shack at the very edge of town that probably sits between gang territories and could also be a drop-off point for one (or both) gangs in the area, a very dangerous place. For some reason, though, there's a deep sense of longing for the small place despite the fear I always feel in it, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's part of who I am and will always be the place where I really started to live.
However, to the right of me lies an alley that leads into the tunnels under the city, probably an old evacuation route that soon faded into the past alongside a thousand other things. Through the tunnels, I can make my way to the one place I truly feel at home: Solar and Lunar's hideout. Much safer than my current residence, it appears to have been an old stronghold or guard barrack, and the actual entrance had been blocked off long ago, leaving the tunnels as the only entrance. A safe place where the evils of the world can't reach me.
Where do I go? Which direction do I take? If I go straight, I can push the decision off for another day, but there's always the chance that I'll be slaughtered (or worse) in my sleep. If I turn, however, I can't go back and will have to dedicate my life to slinking around in the shadows, but not only will I be safe, I'll be happy, which in and of itself is such a previous gift.
Go straight or turn? The question pounds in my head, a much more difficult decision than what it reasonably should be. In my mind, I weigh the pros and the cons over and over again, but it all comes to one thing.
Am I really ready to commit to the group? From my understanding, once I join, there's no easy way out. It is, for all intents and purposes, a gang by itself, a group of ruthless killers that will take anyone down for the correct amount of money. We will be living outside the law for the most part, with the exceptions being when we eliminate a fellow criminal. Once I join, I will have nowhere to turn but them.
Then again, it's not like I have anywhere else to turn now, and the law sure hasn't done me any favors. If anything, it's laughed in my face more times than I can count, keeping me from my rightful inheritance purely out of spite, prejudice, and malice, and has failed countless other individuals in its mission to keep the rich as comfortable as possible, no matter the cost.
Still, what if I can't do it? Am I really capable of committing cold-blooded murder? I've killed before, I've stared people in the eyes as they grow dull and lifeless, I've been covered in blood so many times before—but only ever in self-defense. Can I be the one to take someone else's life without any fight? I'm so caught up in my own thoughts that the rest of the world fades around me, and I don't hear the footsteps of someone approaching.
"Caliera?" a familiar voice calls from the left. I glance over, and a person I never thought I'd see again stands, bathed in yellow light, just a few feet away from me. My heart pounds in my chest as I struggle to keep a neutral expression. She takes a few steps forward, arm outstretched as if to check I'm real.
"I-I don't know who you're talking about," I stammer out. She steps forward more and more until her soft palm presses against my cheek, and as much as my mind screams at me to run away, I'm frozen to the spot by my own shock. Her powder blue eyes fill with tears as she stares at me.
"Oh, honey, I've been looking for you all over the place!" she exclaims. Her arms wrap around my thin shoulders, and she presses her face into my skin. Tears begin to soak the ratty clothing I wear. As I try to back away, her grip only tightens, and my heart behind to pound in my ears as I register the fact that I'm trapped and she's going to drag me back to the place that I can never go again.
"I'm sorry, but you've, uh, got the wrong person," I mumble and try my best to squirm out of her grip, but as I manage to pull away, her nails dig into my shoulders and her face contorts into poorly masked anger.
"Stop being ridiculous," she hisses," and come back home. You may not inherit the family fortune, but you can marry a rich noble and bring at least some of our honor back, you insolent little brat." Her claw-like nails pierce the skin, and I whimper at the rage blazing in her eyes. Still, I feel my own anger rising up, itching up be released after years of holding it back and giving me the strength to wrench myself out of her grip. Blood drips from the scratches and into my clothing, which eagerly absorb the crimson liquid.
"No! I will never go back there! There's nothing for me there, nothing but pain and humiliation. I am not your daughter, not anymore; that person died a long time ago," I snarl in her face. She gasps and takes a surprised step back, but fury quickly overtakes her shock. In a quick movement, she backhands me, and as I stumble to the ground, I hear the clicks of her heels on the stone, the sound ringing in my ears and quickly becoming my most beloved sound.
I'm free. The sound draws a breathy laugh from my lips as I shakily stand up. I take a few steps, the world swimming and lurching before me, before my legs give out from under me again. Panting on the ground, I take a few moments to rest, and after I feel like I can move again, I try to stand up once again.
"Free," I mumble. My head pounds, I'm walking like I'm drunk, and it feels like I'll collapse against at any minute, but I'm free! Giggles escape me constantly as I stumble down the alley and slip into the tunnel, and the sound echoes down the abyss. A figure emerges from the darkness, but I can't make out their features through the blurriness in my eyes.
"Thorn?" a fuzzy voice questions. I smile and nod, but that simple motion sends me stumbling down. The figure rushes forward and keeps me from hitting my head a second time. Golden eyes, furrowed in concern, full my vision as it steadily darkens, and a feeling of safety settles over me, even as the abyss behind him swallows me whole.
Just like that, my decision has been made. Who knows what will happen in my time here? As of right now, we're a solid group of three (Solar, Lunar, and I) with a few drifters, other street kids that stay for a few days. None of us are above eighteen, and most of us, me included, aren't even sixteen. Theoretically, we shouldn't even be able to make it on our own, but what else are we supposed to do when nobody else will house us?
Of course, I do have a place to call home, don't I? The house of Ailer, one of the most noble houses in our kingdom, as a matter of fact, but I'd rather have my heart ripped out in the dirtiest alley than go back to that rotten place. There, I am but an object, a thing without emotions to be traded off for money, whereas here, I am an actual being, someone to be considerate of and to actually interact with.
When I wake up in my new home, Solar slumps over the hospital-like bed. A small smile graces my face as I run my fingers through his soft blond hair, and Lunar walks into the room soon after. She smiles at me and joins Lunar by the bed, and a feeling of belonging surrounds me.
No matter what happens, I know I've made the best decision. Smiling, I content myself to the life before me and allow my eyes to drift shut as I simply enjoy the moment. After all, who knows what sacrifices we'll have to make in the future?
"Nice night, huh?" I question as I glance up at the clear sky, which steadily darkens. The guard next to me doesn't respond and shuffles further away from me. Frowning, I give up on trying to strike up a conversation with anybody and instead continue on my way home, a soft sigh escaping me.
Why do I keep going back? Solar said I could stay with him and Lunar, but… am I really ready to leave everything behind? My steps slowly come to a pause, and I simply stand in the middle of the street and look around. By now, the stars shine brightly overhead while the few streetlights that aren't broken send eerie, flickering light over the street.
Ahead of me lies the path to the home I've been inhabiting for the past few years, a run down shack at the very edge of town that probably sits between gang territories and could also be a drop-off point for one (or both) gangs in the area, a very dangerous place. For some reason, though, there's a deep sense of longing for the small place despite the fear I always feel in it, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's part of who I am and will always be the place where I really started to live.
However, to the right of me lies an alley that leads into the tunnels under the city, probably an old evacuation route that soon faded into the past alongside a thousand other things. Through the tunnels, I can make my way to the one place I truly feel at home: Solar and Lunar's hideout. Much safer than my current residence, it appears to have been an old stronghold or guard barrack, and the actual entrance had been blocked off long ago, leaving the tunnels as the only entrance. A safe place where the evils of the world can't reach me.
Where do I go? Which direction do I take? If I go straight, I can push the decision off for another day, but there's always the chance that I'll be slaughtered (or worse) in my sleep. If I turn, however, I can't go back and will have to dedicate my life to slinking around in the shadows, but not only will I be safe, I'll be happy, which in and of itself is such a previous gift.
Go straight or turn? The question pounds in my head, a much more difficult decision than what it reasonably should be. In my mind, I weigh the pros and the cons over and over again, but it all comes to one thing.
Am I really ready to commit to the group? From my understanding, once I join, there's no easy way out. It is, for all intents and purposes, a gang by itself, a group of ruthless killers that will take anyone down for the correct amount of money. We will be living outside the law for the most part, with the exceptions being when we eliminate a fellow criminal. Once I join, I will have nowhere to turn but them.
Then again, it's not like I have anywhere else to turn now, and the law sure hasn't done me any favors. If anything, it's laughed in my face more times than I can count, keeping me from my rightful inheritance purely out of spite, prejudice, and malice, and has failed countless other individuals in its mission to keep the rich as comfortable as possible, no matter the cost.
Still, what if I can't do it? Am I really capable of committing cold-blooded murder? I've killed before, I've stared people in the eyes as they grow dull and lifeless, I've been covered in blood so many times before—but only ever in self-defense. Can I be the one to take someone else's life without any fight? I'm so caught up in my own thoughts that the rest of the world fades around me, and I don't hear the footsteps of someone approaching.
"Caliera?" a familiar voice calls from the left. I glance over, and a person I never thought I'd see again stands, bathed in yellow light, just a few feet away from me. My heart pounds in my chest as I struggle to keep a neutral expression. She takes a few steps forward, arm outstretched as if to check I'm real.
"I-I don't know who you're talking about," I stammer out. She steps forward more and more until her soft palm presses against my cheek, and as much as my mind screams at me to run away, I'm frozen to the spot by my own shock. Her powder blue eyes fill with tears as she stares at me.
"Oh, honey, I've been looking for you all over the place!" she exclaims. Her arms wrap around my thin shoulders, and she presses her face into my skin. Tears begin to soak the ratty clothing I wear. As I try to back away, her grip only tightens, and my heart behind to pound in my ears as I register the fact that I'm trapped and she's going to drag me back to the place that I can never go again.
"I'm sorry, but you've, uh, got the wrong person," I mumble and try my best to squirm out of her grip, but as I manage to pull away, her nails dig into my shoulders and her face contorts into poorly masked anger.
"Stop being ridiculous," she hisses," and come back home. You may not inherit the family fortune, but you can marry a rich noble and bring at least some of our honor back, you insolent little brat." Her claw-like nails pierce the skin, and I whimper at the rage blazing in her eyes. Still, I feel my own anger rising up, itching up be released after years of holding it back and giving me the strength to wrench myself out of her grip. Blood drips from the scratches and into my clothing, which eagerly absorb the crimson liquid.
"No! I will never go back there! There's nothing for me there, nothing but pain and humiliation. I am not your daughter, not anymore; that person died a long time ago," I snarl in her face. She gasps and takes a surprised step back, but fury quickly overtakes her shock. In a quick movement, she backhands me, and as I stumble to the ground, I hear the clicks of her heels on the stone, the sound ringing in my ears and quickly becoming my most beloved sound.
I'm free. The sound draws a breathy laugh from my lips as I shakily stand up. I take a few steps, the world swimming and lurching before me, before my legs give out from under me again. Panting on the ground, I take a few moments to rest, and after I feel like I can move again, I try to stand up once again.
"Free," I mumble. My head pounds, I'm walking like I'm drunk, and it feels like I'll collapse against at any minute, but I'm free! Giggles escape me constantly as I stumble down the alley and slip into the tunnel, and the sound echoes down the abyss. A figure emerges from the darkness, but I can't make out their features through the blurriness in my eyes.
"Thorn?" a fuzzy voice questions. I smile and nod, but that simple motion sends me stumbling down. The figure rushes forward and keeps me from hitting my head a second time. Golden eyes, furrowed in concern, full my vision as it steadily darkens, and a feeling of safety settles over me, even as the abyss behind him swallows me whole.
Just like that, my decision has been made. Who knows what will happen in my time here? As of right now, we're a solid group of three (Solar, Lunar, and I) with a few drifters, other street kids that stay for a few days. None of us are above eighteen, and most of us, me included, aren't even sixteen. Theoretically, we shouldn't even be able to make it on our own, but what else are we supposed to do when nobody else will house us?
Of course, I do have a place to call home, don't I? The house of Ailer, one of the most noble houses in our kingdom, as a matter of fact, but I'd rather have my heart ripped out in the dirtiest alley than go back to that rotten place. There, I am but an object, a thing without emotions to be traded off for money, whereas here, I am an actual being, someone to be considerate of and to actually interact with.
When I wake up in my new home, Solar slumps over the hospital-like bed. A small smile graces my face as I run my fingers through his soft blond hair, and Lunar walks into the room soon after. She smiles at me and joins Lunar by the bed, and a feeling of belonging surrounds me.
No matter what happens, I know I've made the best decision. Smiling, I content myself to the life before me and allow my eyes to drift shut as I simply enjoy the moment. After all, who knows what sacrifices we'll have to make in the future?
Tick Tock
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Seconds tick away, the sound echoing in my mind. My hand shakes imperceptibly, and a wave of stress washes over me. How many hours left?
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Five hours left. Three hundred minutes. Eighteen thousand ticks clicking in my mind. The seconds slip away, falling into a blazing inferno, and I squeeze my eyes shut to fight against the nausea. How can I do this?
Tick. Tock.
I can't. The answer becomes obvious after the eleven-thousandth click. There's no way to do this! It's impossible! Behind me, they loom, invisible but omnipresent, and my breath catches in my throat. Tears gather in my eyes and blur my vision; I allow them to slip down. What do I do?
Tick.
My stomach turns; the last few clicks sound in my mind. By now, the shaking has spread from my hands to my entire body, and as hard as I try to hold them back, they fall like twin rivers. The presences behind me prowl forth, growling. Saliva drips thickly from their gaping, teeth-filled jaws.
“You failed the task, and now you must pay the consequences,” a menacing voice fills my ears. The beasts around me bark excitedly at the prospect of fresh blood, and a wailing scream escapes me as it sets in.
I'm going to die. With a deep chuckle, the voice issues a command: kill. The beasts surge forth, a single, deadly wave of razor sharp teeth and killing intent. I try to stand up and run, but my legs collpase and spill me onto the floor. Before I can even consider getting back up, the first beast descends upon me. A high-pitched, pain-filled screech escapes me as teeth dig into the soft skin of my arm.
Like an avalanche, the rest suddenly swarm my body. I try to scream again, but the sound merely comes out as a wet gurgle when razor-sharp teeth slice through my throat. My vision begins to darken, and the sounds around me fade into the background until all I can hear is the clicking of my own life wasting away, second by second.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock
Tick.
Seconds tick away, the sound echoing in my mind. My hand shakes imperceptibly, and a wave of stress washes over me. How many hours left?
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Five hours left. Three hundred minutes. Eighteen thousand ticks clicking in my mind. The seconds slip away, falling into a blazing inferno, and I squeeze my eyes shut to fight against the nausea. How can I do this?
Tick. Tock.
I can't. The answer becomes obvious after the eleven-thousandth click. There's no way to do this! It's impossible! Behind me, they loom, invisible but omnipresent, and my breath catches in my throat. Tears gather in my eyes and blur my vision; I allow them to slip down. What do I do?
Tick.
My stomach turns; the last few clicks sound in my mind. By now, the shaking has spread from my hands to my entire body, and as hard as I try to hold them back, they fall like twin rivers. The presences behind me prowl forth, growling. Saliva drips thickly from their gaping, teeth-filled jaws.
“You failed the task, and now you must pay the consequences,” a menacing voice fills my ears. The beasts around me bark excitedly at the prospect of fresh blood, and a wailing scream escapes me as it sets in.
I'm going to die. With a deep chuckle, the voice issues a command: kill. The beasts surge forth, a single, deadly wave of razor sharp teeth and killing intent. I try to stand up and run, but my legs collpase and spill me onto the floor. Before I can even consider getting back up, the first beast descends upon me. A high-pitched, pain-filled screech escapes me as teeth dig into the soft skin of my arm.
Like an avalanche, the rest suddenly swarm my body. I try to scream again, but the sound merely comes out as a wet gurgle when razor-sharp teeth slice through my throat. My vision begins to darken, and the sounds around me fade into the background until all I can hear is the clicking of my own life wasting away, second by second.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock
Tick.
From My Fingers Flow Worlds
I apologize for my absence, but I'm still going to be gone. Essentially, I have something else that I need to focus on, but as soon as I have that done, there will be be an actual new piece up. Until then, enjoy this thing I wrote a while ago but never did anything with!
Sitting here, alone at a lunch table hunched over a notebook filled with messy scrawls of imaginary things that only I know about, I ignore the minimal stares and whispers either directed towards or about me. My glasses hang treacherously on the tip of my nose, threatening to fall off at any moment, but the writing curse strikes with such a vengeance that petty things such as my sight cease to matter. Just as the bell rings for lunch to end, I finish the last word of my idea and, in one dramatic, smooth motion that has quickly become habit, shut my notebook and stand up while also turning around.
Unfortunately, such quick movements finally fling my oversized glasses off of my face and onto the ground. Deftly, I crouch down and snatch the precious object off the ground before a menacing foot could crush them, and, with a huff, I quickly wipe the lenses off with my shirt and secure them back on my face. Fellow students around me snicker at the close call, and as a group of skimpily dressed females decked out with flamboyant colors and eye-grabbing jewelry passes, I catch the words "desperate" and "attention-seeking" before they walk out of ear shot. Still, I can hear the click of their heels against the linoleum floor, out-of-rhythm with each other and momentarily driving me insane before I shove the sound to the back of my head.
They're just self-conscious sluts wanting to drag me down to their level, I sneer in my head as I quickly walk. Within a few minutes, I catch up with the group and easily pass them, their attention focused on the boys passing us by. One of them waves and puts an extra wiggle into her walk, and it takes every shred of self-control to not call the hypocrits out. Instead, I focus my anger into my feet and swiftly charge up the stairs, looking down intensely in an effort to ignore the ass almost directly in my face.
I also choose to ignore the fact that there's somebody behind me in the exact same position, mentally cursing the school's stairs for this awkward situation. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I waste no time in scurrying off to my classroom, and as soon as I step into the safety of my English class, it feels as though everything in me relaxes slightly. Right behind me trudges in a horde of students, their faces alight with amusement as they take their seats. Unfortunately, the seat next to me, the only seat directly near me, once again holds a student, and I busy myself with rearranging the papers on my desk.
"Alright, class! We finished up the notes on short stories and perspective, right? So we're going to be doing a new project," Mrs. Eret, the teacher, claps her hands loudly and speaks excitedly, and I hold in a loud, annoyed sigh as she explains the partner project. We would be writing a short story from two different perspectives, due at the end of the week with only the rest of this class period to work on it during school. Finally, she announces that she'll allow us to pick our initial partners but warns that she will definitely change some pairings up. Feeling awkward and irritated, I stare down at my desk as everyone else flocks to their friend and sit down.
Great. I sigh as everyone else quickly settles down into partners, reluctantly raising my hand when Mrs. Eret calls upon the people without a partner. Much to my surprise, another hand raises confidently into the air; my heart plummets as soon as I notice who it is. Nervousness gnaws at my insides as I hesitantly sit down beside the intimidating figure I have admired since the beginning of middle school, cursing stupid hormones and feelings. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to confidently take a seat next to my partner, and in order to distract myself, I focus on putting up what's unnecessary and taking out some needed supplies, such as spare notebook paper.
"Alright, class. Now, my goal is to find somebody that fits you perfectly as a school partner. A couple of you are already perfect, and those will be your permanent partners and seats," Mrs. Eret explains, glancing at Noah and I at the end.
Oh great. What's the chance that I'd be paired up with the one person I can actually more than stand? Screaming internally, I pull out my idea book and start to flip through it, scanning aimlessly for possible ideas. Noah stares intently at me with his hazel eyes, and I slowly stop looking through my notebook and stare back.
"Let me look," he pretty much demands. I hesitate before placing the notebook in his hands, rationalizing that it was okay because it was just my idea book, my school idea book. Nothing too revealing lurks between the pages... I hope. Anxiously, I watch as he flips through page after page before finally stopping on one.
"'From my fingers flow worlds,'" Noah reads aloud, almost savoring the words, and I feel like dying from the embarrassment of it all. Hell, I think I'd prefer him staring at me naked. At least that's something impersonal, something that doesn't speak a thousand words about a person, personal words that I wouldn't share with just anyone.
"U-uh, yeah. Um, those are just, y'know, kind of quotes about writing..." I trail off into a bunch of nonsensical mumbling, diverting my attention to cleaning my glasses off thoroughly. He hums.
"What if we did something about a writer and his computer? Like how the writer views his world compared to the objective view of a computer," Noah offers. I blink as I put my glasses back on, biting my lip in thought. Slowly, I nod as ideas begin coming to me, reasons why it'd work and be interesting.
"Yeah, yeah. But we'd have to have something interesting about the writer, something more than just writing, something about twisted perception of reality," I add, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. He nods and curiously flips to the next page of my book, and as soon as I see the title, my hands reach out and automatically snatch it back from him. My heart pounds rapidly as I clutch the closed book to my chest, already on edge from the entire thing and quickly being pushed over it. With trembling hands, I put my notebook securely back up and intensely curse myself for ever writing something like that in a school notebook.
"Okay... well, we're not going to finish what we need to finish before class ends, so let's exchange numbers," Noah once again essentially commands after a few moments of stunned silence. Everything rushes over me in an overwhelming jumble of thoughts and emotions, and I stare wide-eyed down at the desk as it all washes over me.
He wants my number. I can't let him have my number. He almost saw. What about my number? He almost saw. I can't get around giving him my number. He almost saw, what would have happened? What will happen? What can I do? I almost fucked up, I'm fucking up, answer him you freak.
"U-uh, sure," I mumble, shaking my head free of the thoughts invading my head. Pulling out half of an index card, I scribble my number down on it, rewriting it to look legible about five times. Reluctantly, I trade my number with his and tuck the slip of paper into my pocket. We resume talking about our idea and putting it on paper until the bells rings, and in my hurry to pack my things, I almost bash my head against the wall right next to my desk by leaning over too zealously.
"Watch out!" Noah snaps as he harshly yanks me back from toppling straight into brick, and I almost trip again in my haste to get away from his absurdly warm and soft body. Under his watchful gaze, I feel more like a child than anything, and I find myself unintentionally scrunching up under his intense stare, feeling incredibly uncomfortable and nervous. Thankfully, I manage to finally sling my backpack into its rightful place, and no time is wasted as I practically sprint to my next class.
What just happened? As soon as I reach my desk, I drop my bag on the floor and ponder the circumstances. Noah became my English partner, most likely for the rest of the year. Someone I've obsessed over since seventh grade. I grimace at the memories and get out my homework, too focused on it to notice the people around me. As I get up to turn the paper in, I notice Noah sitting next to me as opposed to in the opposite corner, and I feel like crying.
"Well, class, since many of the others complained about the homework being too hard, I'm going to redo the lesson and give you guys the rest of today to work on it. The test is still tomorrow, we just won't have time to review. Those of you already finished, go to the back and review by yourselves," my AP Bio teacher, Coach Herre, announces. Most of the students thank him, but I sigh internally. Honestly, the paper wasn't that hard... idiots. Feeling a headache coming on, I gather my stuff and take a seat at the lab tables, fishing my earbuds out of my pockets and plugging them into my phone. Thankfully, Coah Herre lets us listen to music when we're working, so long as it's not too loud or we don't sing.
"What sorta music are you listening to?" a perky, blond-haired boy takes a seat in front of me. I glance at him warily, halfway recognizing him but not really, and put my earbuds in my ears, pressing play. Blue October starts, specifically Info the Ocean, and I smile as I begin to rewrite my notes. Somebody else takes a seat beside me, but I merely ignore them as I write, using pretty, vibrant colors to separate ideas and make my notes easier to understand. Much to my everlasting annoyance, A finger pokes me. Irritated, I pause my music and take out one earbud, glancing over at the person next to me. Noah. Of fucking course.
"Can the idiot across from you borrow a pencil?" he asks. Trying (and failing) to hide my growing annoyance, I haphazardly toss a pencil across the table and resume studying. About halfway through the class period, I finish rewriting my notes, complete with my own remarks and scribbles in the margins, and find myself unmotivated to study more, so I pull out my idea book. Resting my head on my left hand, I stare down at the pages as I lazily flip through them.
An idea for a romance between an assassin and his target... I scan the sparse page, feeling a spark of inspiration as the wheels start turning in my head, and I begin to transfer thoughts into messy scrawls on paper. Pausing, I pull out my phone and stealthily change the playlist from "Chillin' With Myself" to "From My Fingers Flow Worlds," a playlist typically used when writing or fleshing out ideas. System of a Down begins playing right off the bat, signaling the beginning of a damn good session, and the world fades around me as I write.
Writing frees me. Only the paper knows who I truly am, my entire self captured in pages and pages. Between the covers of my notebooks rests worlds of my creation, each a puzzle piece of my mind, and only through writing can I achieve true peace. Otherwise, the thoughts and ideas in my head overheard me, threaten to drown me, try to consume me entirely. Even though the ideas I produce sometimes terrify even myself, their creator, I need to write. These thoughts flow through my head along with my ideas as my hand steadily and speedily moves.
Just as I was really getting to the fantastic ideas, somebody roughly shoves my shoulder, making me topple over in the stool I oh so carefully perched in. In my and Noah's desperate attempts to reverse the action, both of our stools and us crash to the floor in a tangle of metal, flesh, and pain, and I stifle the incredibly loud and explicit string of curses about to fly from my lips. As I rip my arm from out under the stool, it catches on something sharp, probably a piece of metal sticking out the wrong way as per usual, and it tears through my sleeve and skin. Clutching the wounded arm to my chest, I ignore the fact that I'm smearing blood all over my shirt and hastily reset the stool. Sore all over the place, I pack up my stuff, pause my music, and take out my earbuds with one hand, trying to ignore as everyone blatantly mocks me.
Me. Not fucking Noah, but me. Of course they choose the—calm down. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, releasing it slowly. It doesn't help the anger to fade, nor does it chase the tears of frustration away from my eyes, but there's not even a minute left in this class. I can deal with a minute of this mockery before moving on to my next period, theater.
"I'm sorry," Noah bluntly and apathetically states. I glance at him, standing tall in all of his suddenly infuriating glory, and turn away without a word. By now, I can feel the blood seeping through my shirt, but I refuse to move my arm from my chest. These worthless dumbasses have never seen my arms, and I never intend on letting them. After a few seconds of fury-filled thoughts, the bells rings, and as I'm speeding off, a blond figure bounces up to me.
"He really is sorry, you know. I'm Ollie, Noah's brother. We're in the same theater class," Ollie chirps. I remain silent and pick up the pace, weaving my way between people with ease. Unfortunately, so does he, and I wonder why the hell two people, brothers at that, suddenly want to be near me at the same time as we walk into the classroom and set our bags near each other.
Deciding to just ignore them both, I ask my teacher if I can go to the bathroom and snag my bag on the way out, on the off chance I'll need to actually change or some shit. The first thing I do when I reach the thankfully empty bathroom is pull my arm away from my chest and examine the wound.
"Damn," I mumble as I stare at the still bleeding line on my arm, going from the crease of my elbow to my palm. My first thought just so happens to be the fact that they don't make big enough band aids for this shit, my second is whether I can sue or not, and finally I think about the scar it'll leave. Blood pools up in my palm, and I wonder, too, how that's going to effect my writing.
With a sigh, I glance away my from new wound and at the mirror, gasping a little as I see the big, red stain on my shirt. That's definitely not going to wash out all the way, and now I have to fucking change. In a fit of rage, I pull out my phone and enter Noah's number in my phone just to text him "fuck you" without any context whatsoever.
Am I overreacting? I ponder the answer to the question as I pull my shirt off and wrap my arm up in a roll of bandages I had on me for emergencies; ever since somebody tore their hand open in a mishap during a biology lab, I've carried them everywhere.
Mentally thanking myself for keeping them on me, I bandage up my arm and palm before slipping on a new, clean shirt, which I kept on the off chance that I spilled paint or something all over myself, but keep my torn jacket. Needless to say, I like to be prepared for every possibility physically. Mentally? Well, I'm fucking pissed and would be no matter what I tried.
Running a hand through my hair, I scowl at myself in the mirror, feeling my phone buzz in my pocket, and walk back to my theater class. When I walk in, everybody's spread across the room practicing their monologues, which we start presenting tomorrow. Nodding at my teacher, I find my own isolated corner and begin running through my piece.
"So, Ash, what's your monologue over?" Ollie bounces his way over towards me happily, his light brown eyes shimmering with an endless exuberance, and a wave of irritation washes over me as I remember that he's Noah's brother. Just as I'm about to tell him to fuck off, the more reasonable side of me reminds me that I'm enraged at Noah, not Ollie. Family shouldn't suffer under other family members' mistakes. Otherwise... I sigh and run my bandaged hand through my hair. Ollie gasps, "Did my... did my brother do that?"
"Well, it wouldn't have happened without him, but I'm the one who carelessly moved my arm without checking to see if if was safe," I mumble, feeling some of the anger turn towards myself as I say that. Gritting my teeth, I resist the urge to bash my head against the black brick on purpose and instead focus on running through my monologue, wordlessly handing the marked up paper to Ollie as a sort of peacemaker. He reads through it, something in his expression changing as he looks from the monologue I wrote to me.
Is that... respect? Awe? It leaves me incredibly confused, most people who read what I write... my jaw clenches at the thought. Most people look at me like I'm a freak of nature, something about to break, an abomination lurking in their perfect group. As I look at Ollie again, he's rereading the monologue with a hungry expression on his face, and a mixture of emotions bloom in my chest. On one hand, it feels good—no, euphoric to have somebody that actually likes what I write, but on the other, does he really like it or is he just faking it so he can turn around and mock me later?
"Can I read some more of your writing?" Ollie questions me eagerly, his eyes now filling with hope as he gives me the puppy dog eyes. Memories flash through my head as I stare at him, the past coming back from its shallow grave to haunt me, and I begin internally panicking at the thought of letting someone so close to him. My hands rip the paper away from him before I can even realize what I'm doing.
"No," I growl forcibly at him. He shrinks back, the unfamiliar feelings in his eyes turning to more familiar ones, and I turn away from him before he can see the terror he feels reflected back on my face.
I must be a unbreakable fortress. Nobody comes in, nothing comes out. Whatever fantasy I've been deluding myself with today has to end. Nobody likes you, Ash, and you don't like anybody. My head rests against the wall as I remind myself of that fact, the mild headache from before strengthening.
From my fingers flow worlds, and those worlds should remain secret to all but their creator.
Sitting here, alone at a lunch table hunched over a notebook filled with messy scrawls of imaginary things that only I know about, I ignore the minimal stares and whispers either directed towards or about me. My glasses hang treacherously on the tip of my nose, threatening to fall off at any moment, but the writing curse strikes with such a vengeance that petty things such as my sight cease to matter. Just as the bell rings for lunch to end, I finish the last word of my idea and, in one dramatic, smooth motion that has quickly become habit, shut my notebook and stand up while also turning around.
Unfortunately, such quick movements finally fling my oversized glasses off of my face and onto the ground. Deftly, I crouch down and snatch the precious object off the ground before a menacing foot could crush them, and, with a huff, I quickly wipe the lenses off with my shirt and secure them back on my face. Fellow students around me snicker at the close call, and as a group of skimpily dressed females decked out with flamboyant colors and eye-grabbing jewelry passes, I catch the words "desperate" and "attention-seeking" before they walk out of ear shot. Still, I can hear the click of their heels against the linoleum floor, out-of-rhythm with each other and momentarily driving me insane before I shove the sound to the back of my head.
They're just self-conscious sluts wanting to drag me down to their level, I sneer in my head as I quickly walk. Within a few minutes, I catch up with the group and easily pass them, their attention focused on the boys passing us by. One of them waves and puts an extra wiggle into her walk, and it takes every shred of self-control to not call the hypocrits out. Instead, I focus my anger into my feet and swiftly charge up the stairs, looking down intensely in an effort to ignore the ass almost directly in my face.
I also choose to ignore the fact that there's somebody behind me in the exact same position, mentally cursing the school's stairs for this awkward situation. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I waste no time in scurrying off to my classroom, and as soon as I step into the safety of my English class, it feels as though everything in me relaxes slightly. Right behind me trudges in a horde of students, their faces alight with amusement as they take their seats. Unfortunately, the seat next to me, the only seat directly near me, once again holds a student, and I busy myself with rearranging the papers on my desk.
"Alright, class! We finished up the notes on short stories and perspective, right? So we're going to be doing a new project," Mrs. Eret, the teacher, claps her hands loudly and speaks excitedly, and I hold in a loud, annoyed sigh as she explains the partner project. We would be writing a short story from two different perspectives, due at the end of the week with only the rest of this class period to work on it during school. Finally, she announces that she'll allow us to pick our initial partners but warns that she will definitely change some pairings up. Feeling awkward and irritated, I stare down at my desk as everyone else flocks to their friend and sit down.
Great. I sigh as everyone else quickly settles down into partners, reluctantly raising my hand when Mrs. Eret calls upon the people without a partner. Much to my surprise, another hand raises confidently into the air; my heart plummets as soon as I notice who it is. Nervousness gnaws at my insides as I hesitantly sit down beside the intimidating figure I have admired since the beginning of middle school, cursing stupid hormones and feelings. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to confidently take a seat next to my partner, and in order to distract myself, I focus on putting up what's unnecessary and taking out some needed supplies, such as spare notebook paper.
"Alright, class. Now, my goal is to find somebody that fits you perfectly as a school partner. A couple of you are already perfect, and those will be your permanent partners and seats," Mrs. Eret explains, glancing at Noah and I at the end.
Oh great. What's the chance that I'd be paired up with the one person I can actually more than stand? Screaming internally, I pull out my idea book and start to flip through it, scanning aimlessly for possible ideas. Noah stares intently at me with his hazel eyes, and I slowly stop looking through my notebook and stare back.
"Let me look," he pretty much demands. I hesitate before placing the notebook in his hands, rationalizing that it was okay because it was just my idea book, my school idea book. Nothing too revealing lurks between the pages... I hope. Anxiously, I watch as he flips through page after page before finally stopping on one.
"'From my fingers flow worlds,'" Noah reads aloud, almost savoring the words, and I feel like dying from the embarrassment of it all. Hell, I think I'd prefer him staring at me naked. At least that's something impersonal, something that doesn't speak a thousand words about a person, personal words that I wouldn't share with just anyone.
"U-uh, yeah. Um, those are just, y'know, kind of quotes about writing..." I trail off into a bunch of nonsensical mumbling, diverting my attention to cleaning my glasses off thoroughly. He hums.
"What if we did something about a writer and his computer? Like how the writer views his world compared to the objective view of a computer," Noah offers. I blink as I put my glasses back on, biting my lip in thought. Slowly, I nod as ideas begin coming to me, reasons why it'd work and be interesting.
"Yeah, yeah. But we'd have to have something interesting about the writer, something more than just writing, something about twisted perception of reality," I add, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. He nods and curiously flips to the next page of my book, and as soon as I see the title, my hands reach out and automatically snatch it back from him. My heart pounds rapidly as I clutch the closed book to my chest, already on edge from the entire thing and quickly being pushed over it. With trembling hands, I put my notebook securely back up and intensely curse myself for ever writing something like that in a school notebook.
"Okay... well, we're not going to finish what we need to finish before class ends, so let's exchange numbers," Noah once again essentially commands after a few moments of stunned silence. Everything rushes over me in an overwhelming jumble of thoughts and emotions, and I stare wide-eyed down at the desk as it all washes over me.
He wants my number. I can't let him have my number. He almost saw. What about my number? He almost saw. I can't get around giving him my number. He almost saw, what would have happened? What will happen? What can I do? I almost fucked up, I'm fucking up, answer him you freak.
"U-uh, sure," I mumble, shaking my head free of the thoughts invading my head. Pulling out half of an index card, I scribble my number down on it, rewriting it to look legible about five times. Reluctantly, I trade my number with his and tuck the slip of paper into my pocket. We resume talking about our idea and putting it on paper until the bells rings, and in my hurry to pack my things, I almost bash my head against the wall right next to my desk by leaning over too zealously.
"Watch out!" Noah snaps as he harshly yanks me back from toppling straight into brick, and I almost trip again in my haste to get away from his absurdly warm and soft body. Under his watchful gaze, I feel more like a child than anything, and I find myself unintentionally scrunching up under his intense stare, feeling incredibly uncomfortable and nervous. Thankfully, I manage to finally sling my backpack into its rightful place, and no time is wasted as I practically sprint to my next class.
What just happened? As soon as I reach my desk, I drop my bag on the floor and ponder the circumstances. Noah became my English partner, most likely for the rest of the year. Someone I've obsessed over since seventh grade. I grimace at the memories and get out my homework, too focused on it to notice the people around me. As I get up to turn the paper in, I notice Noah sitting next to me as opposed to in the opposite corner, and I feel like crying.
"Well, class, since many of the others complained about the homework being too hard, I'm going to redo the lesson and give you guys the rest of today to work on it. The test is still tomorrow, we just won't have time to review. Those of you already finished, go to the back and review by yourselves," my AP Bio teacher, Coach Herre, announces. Most of the students thank him, but I sigh internally. Honestly, the paper wasn't that hard... idiots. Feeling a headache coming on, I gather my stuff and take a seat at the lab tables, fishing my earbuds out of my pockets and plugging them into my phone. Thankfully, Coah Herre lets us listen to music when we're working, so long as it's not too loud or we don't sing.
"What sorta music are you listening to?" a perky, blond-haired boy takes a seat in front of me. I glance at him warily, halfway recognizing him but not really, and put my earbuds in my ears, pressing play. Blue October starts, specifically Info the Ocean, and I smile as I begin to rewrite my notes. Somebody else takes a seat beside me, but I merely ignore them as I write, using pretty, vibrant colors to separate ideas and make my notes easier to understand. Much to my everlasting annoyance, A finger pokes me. Irritated, I pause my music and take out one earbud, glancing over at the person next to me. Noah. Of fucking course.
"Can the idiot across from you borrow a pencil?" he asks. Trying (and failing) to hide my growing annoyance, I haphazardly toss a pencil across the table and resume studying. About halfway through the class period, I finish rewriting my notes, complete with my own remarks and scribbles in the margins, and find myself unmotivated to study more, so I pull out my idea book. Resting my head on my left hand, I stare down at the pages as I lazily flip through them.
An idea for a romance between an assassin and his target... I scan the sparse page, feeling a spark of inspiration as the wheels start turning in my head, and I begin to transfer thoughts into messy scrawls on paper. Pausing, I pull out my phone and stealthily change the playlist from "Chillin' With Myself" to "From My Fingers Flow Worlds," a playlist typically used when writing or fleshing out ideas. System of a Down begins playing right off the bat, signaling the beginning of a damn good session, and the world fades around me as I write.
Writing frees me. Only the paper knows who I truly am, my entire self captured in pages and pages. Between the covers of my notebooks rests worlds of my creation, each a puzzle piece of my mind, and only through writing can I achieve true peace. Otherwise, the thoughts and ideas in my head overheard me, threaten to drown me, try to consume me entirely. Even though the ideas I produce sometimes terrify even myself, their creator, I need to write. These thoughts flow through my head along with my ideas as my hand steadily and speedily moves.
Just as I was really getting to the fantastic ideas, somebody roughly shoves my shoulder, making me topple over in the stool I oh so carefully perched in. In my and Noah's desperate attempts to reverse the action, both of our stools and us crash to the floor in a tangle of metal, flesh, and pain, and I stifle the incredibly loud and explicit string of curses about to fly from my lips. As I rip my arm from out under the stool, it catches on something sharp, probably a piece of metal sticking out the wrong way as per usual, and it tears through my sleeve and skin. Clutching the wounded arm to my chest, I ignore the fact that I'm smearing blood all over my shirt and hastily reset the stool. Sore all over the place, I pack up my stuff, pause my music, and take out my earbuds with one hand, trying to ignore as everyone blatantly mocks me.
Me. Not fucking Noah, but me. Of course they choose the—calm down. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in, releasing it slowly. It doesn't help the anger to fade, nor does it chase the tears of frustration away from my eyes, but there's not even a minute left in this class. I can deal with a minute of this mockery before moving on to my next period, theater.
"I'm sorry," Noah bluntly and apathetically states. I glance at him, standing tall in all of his suddenly infuriating glory, and turn away without a word. By now, I can feel the blood seeping through my shirt, but I refuse to move my arm from my chest. These worthless dumbasses have never seen my arms, and I never intend on letting them. After a few seconds of fury-filled thoughts, the bells rings, and as I'm speeding off, a blond figure bounces up to me.
"He really is sorry, you know. I'm Ollie, Noah's brother. We're in the same theater class," Ollie chirps. I remain silent and pick up the pace, weaving my way between people with ease. Unfortunately, so does he, and I wonder why the hell two people, brothers at that, suddenly want to be near me at the same time as we walk into the classroom and set our bags near each other.
Deciding to just ignore them both, I ask my teacher if I can go to the bathroom and snag my bag on the way out, on the off chance I'll need to actually change or some shit. The first thing I do when I reach the thankfully empty bathroom is pull my arm away from my chest and examine the wound.
"Damn," I mumble as I stare at the still bleeding line on my arm, going from the crease of my elbow to my palm. My first thought just so happens to be the fact that they don't make big enough band aids for this shit, my second is whether I can sue or not, and finally I think about the scar it'll leave. Blood pools up in my palm, and I wonder, too, how that's going to effect my writing.
With a sigh, I glance away my from new wound and at the mirror, gasping a little as I see the big, red stain on my shirt. That's definitely not going to wash out all the way, and now I have to fucking change. In a fit of rage, I pull out my phone and enter Noah's number in my phone just to text him "fuck you" without any context whatsoever.
Am I overreacting? I ponder the answer to the question as I pull my shirt off and wrap my arm up in a roll of bandages I had on me for emergencies; ever since somebody tore their hand open in a mishap during a biology lab, I've carried them everywhere.
Mentally thanking myself for keeping them on me, I bandage up my arm and palm before slipping on a new, clean shirt, which I kept on the off chance that I spilled paint or something all over myself, but keep my torn jacket. Needless to say, I like to be prepared for every possibility physically. Mentally? Well, I'm fucking pissed and would be no matter what I tried.
Running a hand through my hair, I scowl at myself in the mirror, feeling my phone buzz in my pocket, and walk back to my theater class. When I walk in, everybody's spread across the room practicing their monologues, which we start presenting tomorrow. Nodding at my teacher, I find my own isolated corner and begin running through my piece.
"So, Ash, what's your monologue over?" Ollie bounces his way over towards me happily, his light brown eyes shimmering with an endless exuberance, and a wave of irritation washes over me as I remember that he's Noah's brother. Just as I'm about to tell him to fuck off, the more reasonable side of me reminds me that I'm enraged at Noah, not Ollie. Family shouldn't suffer under other family members' mistakes. Otherwise... I sigh and run my bandaged hand through my hair. Ollie gasps, "Did my... did my brother do that?"
"Well, it wouldn't have happened without him, but I'm the one who carelessly moved my arm without checking to see if if was safe," I mumble, feeling some of the anger turn towards myself as I say that. Gritting my teeth, I resist the urge to bash my head against the black brick on purpose and instead focus on running through my monologue, wordlessly handing the marked up paper to Ollie as a sort of peacemaker. He reads through it, something in his expression changing as he looks from the monologue I wrote to me.
Is that... respect? Awe? It leaves me incredibly confused, most people who read what I write... my jaw clenches at the thought. Most people look at me like I'm a freak of nature, something about to break, an abomination lurking in their perfect group. As I look at Ollie again, he's rereading the monologue with a hungry expression on his face, and a mixture of emotions bloom in my chest. On one hand, it feels good—no, euphoric to have somebody that actually likes what I write, but on the other, does he really like it or is he just faking it so he can turn around and mock me later?
"Can I read some more of your writing?" Ollie questions me eagerly, his eyes now filling with hope as he gives me the puppy dog eyes. Memories flash through my head as I stare at him, the past coming back from its shallow grave to haunt me, and I begin internally panicking at the thought of letting someone so close to him. My hands rip the paper away from him before I can even realize what I'm doing.
"No," I growl forcibly at him. He shrinks back, the unfamiliar feelings in his eyes turning to more familiar ones, and I turn away from him before he can see the terror he feels reflected back on my face.
I must be a unbreakable fortress. Nobody comes in, nothing comes out. Whatever fantasy I've been deluding myself with today has to end. Nobody likes you, Ash, and you don't like anybody. My head rests against the wall as I remind myself of that fact, the mild headache from before strengthening.
From my fingers flow worlds, and those worlds should remain secret to all but their creator.
Pressure Builds and It Releases
There's a moment in life when everything builds up and the only way out is a drastic action but you're too scared to do anything--so the pressure just builds up and up and up until you're about to explode.
Then a release. Everyone has a different way of letting out the stress, some of them unhealthy and others healthy. Sometimes the release just adds to the pressure on the long run, but for the moment everything feels great and fantastic and you're so light you could fly.
Then the weight of their gazes drags you down to the ground again and you tremble beneath their shameful gazes and it takes everything you have to not just curl up and beg for death in the middle of it all. Even as you shamefully drag yourself away from that vortex of embarrassment, their burning eyes remain imprinted in your memory and stick to your shoulders, claws embedded straight into the bone and digging ever deeper.
Oh, God, how is anything going to be the same ever again? Laid before you is an eternity of shame and pressure and claws in bone, and there's no getting out of it this time. All the while, the bills continue to pile up and up, reaching for heaven, as the people around you just continue to stare and judge without knowing anything of what you've been through.
By this point, the pressure is about to explode; you need a release. Again. You hesitate but in the end you remind yourself that it's all out in the open and so what. Just like that, you're soaring back in those same pressure-less skies and everything feels great and who cares if you're going to live your entire life with this volcano of shame perched in your head, ready to ignite at a single glance? You have this. That's all you need.
By this point, you're not sure why you continue to bother. Everything balances on your thin, weak shoulders, still being torn to pieces by the burning claws of judging gazes, and you're just exhausted. Even though you're trying your best, everything just gets worse, crashing straight through rock bottom without a second thought, and everyone blames you because you're the one with the shameful stress-relief and obviously you aren't doing everything you can.
You want to give up. What's the point of trying when you aren't changing anything? What's the point of doing everything you physically can when people are just going to right you off as another social outcast wasting your life away on the only thing that makes you happy?
Finally, everything crashes down. You watch, numb, as it all slowly tumbles down around you. A spark of bittersweet relief burns at the core of your being, but, ultimately, you just can't feel anything anymore, and with a heavy sigh, you fall back into the arms of your release and just watch as your life circles the drain, around and around and around. Finally, the last few drops of whatever remains slips into the hole, down the pipes, and out to wherever failed lives go.
There's a moment in life (death?) that you realise nothing really matters, and with a grin on your face, you just allow yourself to be dragged down into the depths, the claws embedded in your shoulders loosening and falling off and the volcano in your head quieting from the lack of an explosive gaze. Alone. Peaceful. Pressure-less. Flying.
Then a release. Everyone has a different way of letting out the stress, some of them unhealthy and others healthy. Sometimes the release just adds to the pressure on the long run, but for the moment everything feels great and fantastic and you're so light you could fly.
Then the weight of their gazes drags you down to the ground again and you tremble beneath their shameful gazes and it takes everything you have to not just curl up and beg for death in the middle of it all. Even as you shamefully drag yourself away from that vortex of embarrassment, their burning eyes remain imprinted in your memory and stick to your shoulders, claws embedded straight into the bone and digging ever deeper.
Oh, God, how is anything going to be the same ever again? Laid before you is an eternity of shame and pressure and claws in bone, and there's no getting out of it this time. All the while, the bills continue to pile up and up, reaching for heaven, as the people around you just continue to stare and judge without knowing anything of what you've been through.
By this point, the pressure is about to explode; you need a release. Again. You hesitate but in the end you remind yourself that it's all out in the open and so what. Just like that, you're soaring back in those same pressure-less skies and everything feels great and who cares if you're going to live your entire life with this volcano of shame perched in your head, ready to ignite at a single glance? You have this. That's all you need.
By this point, you're not sure why you continue to bother. Everything balances on your thin, weak shoulders, still being torn to pieces by the burning claws of judging gazes, and you're just exhausted. Even though you're trying your best, everything just gets worse, crashing straight through rock bottom without a second thought, and everyone blames you because you're the one with the shameful stress-relief and obviously you aren't doing everything you can.
You want to give up. What's the point of trying when you aren't changing anything? What's the point of doing everything you physically can when people are just going to right you off as another social outcast wasting your life away on the only thing that makes you happy?
Finally, everything crashes down. You watch, numb, as it all slowly tumbles down around you. A spark of bittersweet relief burns at the core of your being, but, ultimately, you just can't feel anything anymore, and with a heavy sigh, you fall back into the arms of your release and just watch as your life circles the drain, around and around and around. Finally, the last few drops of whatever remains slips into the hole, down the pipes, and out to wherever failed lives go.
There's a moment in life (death?) that you realise nothing really matters, and with a grin on your face, you just allow yourself to be dragged down into the depths, the claws embedded in your shoulders loosening and falling off and the volcano in your head quieting from the lack of an explosive gaze. Alone. Peaceful. Pressure-less. Flying.
Winter's Cold Grasp
White. Nothing but white. It stretches out for an eternity, threatening to swallow my minuscule form whole. My breathing becomes visible as a noticeable chill spreads throughout my body, and I wrap my frail arms around myself. Before me, the unbroken expanse of ice begins to glimmer with an unknown light.
Suddenly, the glimmer turns into a bright gleam that shines directly into my eyes and blinds me. Automatically, my arm flies up to shield my eyes in a violent action than sends a stinging pain through my shoulder. Clenching my teeth, anger and frustration flood through me; how dare the sun blind me like that? That's so stupid and unfair!
For a few seconds, I stand, cowering away from the gleaning brilliance before me, but as the volatile volcano of fiery emotions erupts inside of me, I fling my arm back down to my side and scream at the great big ball of fire in the sky. A crack, harsh and awe-inspiring, reverberates around the endless space as a long split appears in the ice, in the general path of my hand.
Did I…? Fascination and a deep-set satisfaction slowly bleed through my annoyance. Curious, I slowly lift my arm and pause for a few seconds. My lungs expand in a deep breath as I ready myself; once I've expelled all the air, I slice through the air in one clean motion. Like before, a crack appears in the ice, and a feverish need for more threatens to crush me between two strong jaws.
Deep breaths. Calm down. Self control. Calmly, I raise my hand again, but instead of snapping it back down, I slowly but forcefully drag it through the air. Savoring every moment, I watch with hungry eyes as a deep split appears in the otherwise expanse, and as I finish the motion, the desire within only becomes that much more uncontrollable. A tremor slowly works its way up from my eager fingers, and every last bit of self-control I managed to cling to thus far falls away in an instant.
I need more. The thought pulses in my brain; every pump of red blood through my body only pounds the message deeper in my brain until it settles at the very bottom and spreads thin roots into the very soil of my soul. Taking a shaky breath, I slowly raise my arm again. I pause, hanging between the past and the future, and I know that I have a choice to just walk away.
For the fourth time, I snap my arm down. This time, I don't wait, don't admire the mark left behind, don't take the time to recuperate. Instead, I create another gash in the ice, and another, over and over and over again until my arm screams in agony and the ice has become nothing but a mangled mess.
Panting, I gaze out at my masterpiece with lidded eyes. Satisfaction slowly seeps in, a dull, sickly warmth that leaves me shuddering in a mixture of pleasure and disgust, and I can't help tilt my head back and let a small noise escape me as it all washes over me. Dropping to my knees, I allow my eyes to close fully as a dopey, wobbly smile spreads over my face.
Slowly, the warmth drips down my arm and onto the ice, leaving me cold and empty once again. As I reopen my eyes, I notice that the ice is no longer white at all but all tinged red as the sun sets, and as I find myself falling into a never-ending expanse of blackness, I wonder when I can do it all again.
Suddenly, the glimmer turns into a bright gleam that shines directly into my eyes and blinds me. Automatically, my arm flies up to shield my eyes in a violent action than sends a stinging pain through my shoulder. Clenching my teeth, anger and frustration flood through me; how dare the sun blind me like that? That's so stupid and unfair!
For a few seconds, I stand, cowering away from the gleaning brilliance before me, but as the volatile volcano of fiery emotions erupts inside of me, I fling my arm back down to my side and scream at the great big ball of fire in the sky. A crack, harsh and awe-inspiring, reverberates around the endless space as a long split appears in the ice, in the general path of my hand.
Did I…? Fascination and a deep-set satisfaction slowly bleed through my annoyance. Curious, I slowly lift my arm and pause for a few seconds. My lungs expand in a deep breath as I ready myself; once I've expelled all the air, I slice through the air in one clean motion. Like before, a crack appears in the ice, and a feverish need for more threatens to crush me between two strong jaws.
Deep breaths. Calm down. Self control. Calmly, I raise my hand again, but instead of snapping it back down, I slowly but forcefully drag it through the air. Savoring every moment, I watch with hungry eyes as a deep split appears in the otherwise expanse, and as I finish the motion, the desire within only becomes that much more uncontrollable. A tremor slowly works its way up from my eager fingers, and every last bit of self-control I managed to cling to thus far falls away in an instant.
I need more. The thought pulses in my brain; every pump of red blood through my body only pounds the message deeper in my brain until it settles at the very bottom and spreads thin roots into the very soil of my soul. Taking a shaky breath, I slowly raise my arm again. I pause, hanging between the past and the future, and I know that I have a choice to just walk away.
For the fourth time, I snap my arm down. This time, I don't wait, don't admire the mark left behind, don't take the time to recuperate. Instead, I create another gash in the ice, and another, over and over and over again until my arm screams in agony and the ice has become nothing but a mangled mess.
Panting, I gaze out at my masterpiece with lidded eyes. Satisfaction slowly seeps in, a dull, sickly warmth that leaves me shuddering in a mixture of pleasure and disgust, and I can't help tilt my head back and let a small noise escape me as it all washes over me. Dropping to my knees, I allow my eyes to close fully as a dopey, wobbly smile spreads over my face.
Slowly, the warmth drips down my arm and onto the ice, leaving me cold and empty once again. As I reopen my eyes, I notice that the ice is no longer white at all but all tinged red as the sun sets, and as I find myself falling into a never-ending expanse of blackness, I wonder when I can do it all again.
Re: A Myriad of Stories
Enjoy this thing I wrote in school while I work on getting an actual piece out at some point.
What do I do? The blackness presses down in me, threatens to swallow me, pulls at every fiber of my being; my chest heaves; what do I do?
I can't give in. I must fight. The void can't win, I won't let it! But how do I stop it? What do I do?
My heart pounds against my chest. I can't breathe. Around me the blackness pulses; it's getting hungry. I won't feed it, can't feed it, but how do resist? What do I do?
My head spins with all the different choices, each of them resulting in the exact same thing. What do I do? The blackness creeps closer and smirks a sickening smirk as it basks in my obvious confusion and growing desperation. What do I do? It extends seeking, writhing fingers that burn when it touches me. What do I do? They wrap around my arms, my throat, my soul. What do I do? I'm covered, caught, entrapped by the burning blackness. What do I do?
Scream. It echoes through the void. Pause–what do I do? The blackness squeezes, and my heart beats faster. For a few, sickening seconds, we–the blackness and I, travelling down this one-path road together until the end–remain in this embrace of the soul, of everything good that remains buried deep within me. Once again, the blackness squeezes, tighter and tighter with every harsh beat of my heart.
One two three. Struggling, my heart threatens to burst between its black bars, and the blackness leers at me, feeding off my desperation and fear. By this point, we both know how this elegant, complicated dance of festering darkness will end, yet I can't give in.
What do I do? The darkness smirks and pauses its slow torture. What do I do? It urges me to stop this stupid game and just give in already; it’ll be easier, it whispers. It gives my heart a warning squeeze, tighter than ever. What do I do?
Give in, the void within my own soul urges. Feed the blackness, feed us. But I can't, how can I? Yet I must, right? Is it not my only option? Swallowing thickly, I hang my head. Silence. Stillness. Then, I nod. Grinning darkly, the blackness slowly retreats; there's nothing left for it here now that I've given in. It smirks at me one final time, and I watch, numb, as it, joined by the darkness that had festered not-so-deep win myself, slithers off, stronger and hungrier than ever.
What have I done?
What do I do? The blackness presses down in me, threatens to swallow me, pulls at every fiber of my being; my chest heaves; what do I do?
I can't give in. I must fight. The void can't win, I won't let it! But how do I stop it? What do I do?
My heart pounds against my chest. I can't breathe. Around me the blackness pulses; it's getting hungry. I won't feed it, can't feed it, but how do resist? What do I do?
My head spins with all the different choices, each of them resulting in the exact same thing. What do I do? The blackness creeps closer and smirks a sickening smirk as it basks in my obvious confusion and growing desperation. What do I do? It extends seeking, writhing fingers that burn when it touches me. What do I do? They wrap around my arms, my throat, my soul. What do I do? I'm covered, caught, entrapped by the burning blackness. What do I do?
Scream. It echoes through the void. Pause–what do I do? The blackness squeezes, and my heart beats faster. For a few, sickening seconds, we–the blackness and I, travelling down this one-path road together until the end–remain in this embrace of the soul, of everything good that remains buried deep within me. Once again, the blackness squeezes, tighter and tighter with every harsh beat of my heart.
One two three. Struggling, my heart threatens to burst between its black bars, and the blackness leers at me, feeding off my desperation and fear. By this point, we both know how this elegant, complicated dance of festering darkness will end, yet I can't give in.
What do I do? The darkness smirks and pauses its slow torture. What do I do? It urges me to stop this stupid game and just give in already; it’ll be easier, it whispers. It gives my heart a warning squeeze, tighter than ever. What do I do?
Give in, the void within my own soul urges. Feed the blackness, feed us. But I can't, how can I? Yet I must, right? Is it not my only option? Swallowing thickly, I hang my head. Silence. Stillness. Then, I nod. Grinning darkly, the blackness slowly retreats; there's nothing left for it here now that I've given in. It smirks at me one final time, and I watch, numb, as it, joined by the darkness that had festered not-so-deep win myself, slithers off, stronger and hungrier than ever.
What have I done?
Re: A Myriad of Stories
The sun traces a bleeding path through the sky as it sets, and as creatures begin to stir and settle down, the world comes alive. Small rodents scurry about, collecting the last bits of food before predators awake, while larger carnivores, stomachs growling in hunger, begin to stir in their own nests. Darkness creeps across the world and finalizes the change as a pair of non-native figures slowly trudge up the path, winding its way through the forest.
“Guess we should settle down for the night. Can you get some firewood, Vaxria?” the taller one asks her creature companion. The winged beast chirps in response as she nudges her friend in the hip, and as the beast disappears into the night, the taller figure sighs and sets her heavy pack down. By the time she's finished setting up camp, Vaxria has collected enough firewood for the night. Soon, a fire crackles quietly, its glow not reaching beyond the limits of the camp, and the two stare at the flames as they silently eat.
Of course, the world around them does not partake in their silent vigil. Predators slink quietly through the woods, prey cautiously forage for food, the breeze rustles leaves. A collection of small, quiet noises that, when joined, creates a symphony of organic sound, something to be revered and savored. Vaxria, sensing this, closes her eyes and pricks her ears to drink in every soft noise. Her companion, however, sits up in alarm at the motion.
“Is there something wrong? They couldn't have found us so soon,” she rushes out as she begins to rush to gather the campsite. Vaxria peeks one yellow eye at her companion, and she lets out an irritated chirping growl to silence the humanoid figure. Shocked, the female stops in her tracks and looks, hurt, at her beast companion, but the creature’s yellow eyes are closed serenely once again. Unsure of what to do, the humanoid figure sits down once again and stares blankly into the still-burning fire.
They’ve been on the run for… her crimson eyes glaze over as she tries to count the days. The days blur into one big, long, stressful journey, however, and she quickly gives up on the task. Sighing, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a leather-backed journal. Fancy gold script is scrawled across the front, barely legible, but she doesn't pause to read what the words say as she flips lazily through the pages. Her eyes scan the messy words restlessly, flicking past unpleasant parts and lingering on softer moments. The further into the journal she goes, the faster she flips, and by the time she's resting on a blank page, she hasn't read any of the last few pages, their contents too raw and painful to even look at.
Hopefully, her luck will change soon. With a wry smile, she slips her pen from her bag and begins to dutifully recount the events of the day. Overall uneventful, they hadn't stopped at all since before dawn and continued their journey across Adrir in the hopes of finding a discreet place to travel to another realm. Unfortunately, it's starting to look like their only option is through Ryler, the most populated city.
Unless, of course, she wants to use her powers, but portal-making is risky, especially when she hasn't practiced using any of powers in a while. Then again… with a sigh, the humanoid places her journal and pen back into the bag, finished documenting her day and now planning the future.
There’s no way around it, is there? She's going to have to use her powers one way or another. Scowling, the humanoid opens her mouth to request her companion’s opinion, but as the memory of the previous encounter runs through her head, she shuts her mouth with a quiet sigh and instead tilts her head up to look at the stars.
Sometimes, she wonders what it would be like to escape these realms forever and live somewhere else, free from judgment because of her parents. One of the thousands of realms up above her, gleaming so promisingly, and such a deep longing rises in her chest that she can't stand it. Biting her lip, the humanoid female desperately searches the stars for an escape route, but as per usual, there’s nowhere for her to go or hide. She’s stuck travelling the same path as always, unable to do anything or go anywhere new, and the worst part is that she’s alone.
Wait, no. She isn't alone. Glancing over at her furred and feathered companion, she smiles softly and admires the relaxed but graceful stance of the majestic beast. Vaxria, feeling the weight of her gaze, slowly opens her eyes and turns to face her humanoid friend. Chittering softly, the creature moves forward and nuzzles the other’s cheek affectionately and apologetically.
“It's okay, Vaxria. I guess we’re both a little on edge, huh?” the humanoid figure softly remarks as she scratches her companion behind her large, pointed ears. With a content bark-chirp, Vaxria rests her head on the humanoid’s lap and curls her fluffy tail over the both of them. Staring up at the stars, the two bask in the sounds of nature, and for a few moments, it feels like they've somehow been transported to one of the realms they gaze at, a peaceful place with just the two of them, and as the humanoid falls asleep, she makes a silent promise that the next day will change everything for the better.
Tomorrow, howerry, is tomorrow. For tonight, she lets the sound of soft breezes blowing through trees, soft rustling of feathers and fur, and the calls of animals to lull her into sleep. Vaxria breathes out softly and follows her friend’s example; soon, the two sleep under the watchful eyes of the star and the moon.
“Guess we should settle down for the night. Can you get some firewood, Vaxria?” the taller one asks her creature companion. The winged beast chirps in response as she nudges her friend in the hip, and as the beast disappears into the night, the taller figure sighs and sets her heavy pack down. By the time she's finished setting up camp, Vaxria has collected enough firewood for the night. Soon, a fire crackles quietly, its glow not reaching beyond the limits of the camp, and the two stare at the flames as they silently eat.
Of course, the world around them does not partake in their silent vigil. Predators slink quietly through the woods, prey cautiously forage for food, the breeze rustles leaves. A collection of small, quiet noises that, when joined, creates a symphony of organic sound, something to be revered and savored. Vaxria, sensing this, closes her eyes and pricks her ears to drink in every soft noise. Her companion, however, sits up in alarm at the motion.
“Is there something wrong? They couldn't have found us so soon,” she rushes out as she begins to rush to gather the campsite. Vaxria peeks one yellow eye at her companion, and she lets out an irritated chirping growl to silence the humanoid figure. Shocked, the female stops in her tracks and looks, hurt, at her beast companion, but the creature’s yellow eyes are closed serenely once again. Unsure of what to do, the humanoid figure sits down once again and stares blankly into the still-burning fire.
They’ve been on the run for… her crimson eyes glaze over as she tries to count the days. The days blur into one big, long, stressful journey, however, and she quickly gives up on the task. Sighing, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a leather-backed journal. Fancy gold script is scrawled across the front, barely legible, but she doesn't pause to read what the words say as she flips lazily through the pages. Her eyes scan the messy words restlessly, flicking past unpleasant parts and lingering on softer moments. The further into the journal she goes, the faster she flips, and by the time she's resting on a blank page, she hasn't read any of the last few pages, their contents too raw and painful to even look at.
Hopefully, her luck will change soon. With a wry smile, she slips her pen from her bag and begins to dutifully recount the events of the day. Overall uneventful, they hadn't stopped at all since before dawn and continued their journey across Adrir in the hopes of finding a discreet place to travel to another realm. Unfortunately, it's starting to look like their only option is through Ryler, the most populated city.
Unless, of course, she wants to use her powers, but portal-making is risky, especially when she hasn't practiced using any of powers in a while. Then again… with a sigh, the humanoid places her journal and pen back into the bag, finished documenting her day and now planning the future.
There’s no way around it, is there? She's going to have to use her powers one way or another. Scowling, the humanoid opens her mouth to request her companion’s opinion, but as the memory of the previous encounter runs through her head, she shuts her mouth with a quiet sigh and instead tilts her head up to look at the stars.
Sometimes, she wonders what it would be like to escape these realms forever and live somewhere else, free from judgment because of her parents. One of the thousands of realms up above her, gleaming so promisingly, and such a deep longing rises in her chest that she can't stand it. Biting her lip, the humanoid female desperately searches the stars for an escape route, but as per usual, there’s nowhere for her to go or hide. She’s stuck travelling the same path as always, unable to do anything or go anywhere new, and the worst part is that she’s alone.
Wait, no. She isn't alone. Glancing over at her furred and feathered companion, she smiles softly and admires the relaxed but graceful stance of the majestic beast. Vaxria, feeling the weight of her gaze, slowly opens her eyes and turns to face her humanoid friend. Chittering softly, the creature moves forward and nuzzles the other’s cheek affectionately and apologetically.
“It's okay, Vaxria. I guess we’re both a little on edge, huh?” the humanoid figure softly remarks as she scratches her companion behind her large, pointed ears. With a content bark-chirp, Vaxria rests her head on the humanoid’s lap and curls her fluffy tail over the both of them. Staring up at the stars, the two bask in the sounds of nature, and for a few moments, it feels like they've somehow been transported to one of the realms they gaze at, a peaceful place with just the two of them, and as the humanoid falls asleep, she makes a silent promise that the next day will change everything for the better.
Tomorrow, howerry, is tomorrow. For tonight, she lets the sound of soft breezes blowing through trees, soft rustling of feathers and fur, and the calls of animals to lull her into sleep. Vaxria breathes out softly and follows her friend’s example; soon, the two sleep under the watchful eyes of the star and the moon.
Re: A Myriad of Stories
“Alexio,” Kal whines as he slowly rises in my peripheral vision. Suppressing a sigh, I adjust my position to where I can't see him and continue to work on the stupid project in front of me, which is due in a couple of days. Kal huffs a little and begins to walk, and I allow myself to relax and return to my previous position as I notice that he's not coming back. Good, I need as much time as possible to get this done. Oh, Kismus, how am I going to be able to finish? Allowing myself a few minutes of stress and self-pity, I lean my head on my hands and stop fighting against the urge to cry from the stress of it all.
Unfortunately, the moment lasts for only a short while. A few minutes after he walks away, I hear a very distinctive sound, one that makes me scramble to securely put up my project and wipe my face and eyes free of any evidence of my small moment of weakness.
The hounds have been released. Not actual hunting hounds, of course, but rather a group of puppies from different species Kal is raising for his class. Six of them, to specific. To specify even further, there's a rambunctious aktili, an even rougher aktili izren, a destructively curious sikar, a nikeri that doesn't know the meaning of personal space, a zaikron without any concept of gentle, and, finally, a “cozily warm” rekzin that’s not quite fully in control of its temperature yet.
It's hell. I mean, really, it's not nearly as bad as the first time a few weeks ago, but it's still pretty bad. Especially because it got super cold this past week, so we can't really take them outside and let them run off their energy like usual. It also doesn't help that this is the first time since it got cold that we’re going to have more than one with us.
Damn it, why didn't I listen to Kal? Guilt and frustration swirl around my stomach as I hurry to puppy-proof the room, and by the time Ferinium, the aktili izren, runs in, I’ve only managed to get about three-fourths of the way through. With a not-so-quiet groan of frustration, I accept the rough but loving licks from the iron-plated and colored pup.
“I'm sorry, Alexio. I tried to find a good time to warn you, but you just seemed so stressed,” Kal, worried, appears in the doorway as the rest of the pack streams in. Tiredly observing the chaos already occurring, I offer him a lopsided smile and shrug nonchalantly to hide the fact that I'm internally freaking out. I can't do this, how can I do this? I'm going to fail, but I can't fail! If I fail, they might kick me out of the Academy or I won't be able to get a good job and I'll be separated from Kal forever!
“It's okay. I mean, this is part of your grade,” I try to reassure him, but my voice comes out sounding tight and very stressed while tears of frustration begin to pool up in my eyes. Cursing under my breath, I rush out an apology and push past Kal. His hand wraps around my arm in an attempt to keep me in the room, probably so he can apologize, but all it does is make me freak out more. Suppressing a scream, I yank my arm away from him and hurriedly lock myself in a bathroom.
“Alexio! Please!” Kal calls through the door. Hearing his voice, frantic and worried, just adds more turmoil to the storm brewing inside my head. Silent in my suffering, I pace the short length of the bathroom, and as bad as I feel for ignoring Kal, I know that if I respond I'll snap and hurt him even more.
Kismus, help me. Swallowing thickly around the ball in my throat, I run a hand through my hair and grip the counter tightly, and as I try to take deep, steady breaths, the world around me fades.
In. Out. In. Out. You're okay, Alexio, you're fine. Letting a shaky breath, I reopen my eyes, which I hadn't even realized I closed in the first place, and carefully let go of the counter. My fingers protest a little, and I grimace. I hadn't realized I had been gripping so tightly, whoops. Wiping my face clean of any stress tears, I cautiously open the bathroom door. Almost immediately, Kal jumps up and stares at me with his one working eye, and I freeze.
Oh, Kismus, what do I do? What do I say? The stress from before comes crashing down on me once again as I run a hand through my already messy hair, and all of a sudden, I find myself about to collapse in a pathetic, crying ball once again. Kal seems to sense this, judging by the panicked look on his face.
Before I can retreat back into the safety of the bathroom, though, a pair of warm arms wrap around me. My first reaction is to freak out, but the natural and soothing warmth of Kal spreads through me and relaxes my muscles.
Unfortunately, it also reminds me how badly I treated him, and I end up crying harder against his chest. He carefully guides me into our room, and even when the crying subsides, I continue to shamefully hide my face in his chest.
“Alexio, it's okay. You're allowed to cry, you know,” Kal mumbles, but he doesn't try to force me to let go or look at him. I can feel and hear the pups getting a little rowdy around us, though, so I reluctantly pull myself away from him. A coldness washes over me, which I pretend is because of the open window and cool weather, and to further distract myself from the new but equally stressful emotions, I dig out one of my old, incomplete sketchbooks and settle down on my bed, which has already been claimed by Feri.
Suddenly, I remember that I have yet to respond to Kal. As Feri squirms her way into my lap, I look up with the intention of responding to Kal, but I get distracted by the sight of him playing with the other pups. The aktili and sikar yip excitedly as they play with his tail, the nikeri seems to be steadily working himself into Kal’s shirt, and, finally, the last two chase a ball that Kal throws.
He looks so… happy. I find myself entranced by the expression of pure joy he holds as he bonds with the pups, and a smile matching his slips onto my face. A bark from Feri snaps me back into reality, though. I tear my eyes away from the scene to look down at the brown and grey pup. She holds my pencil gently between her teeth, and as my eyes meet hers, she drops the pencil and nudges it towards me.
“Of course,” I sigh a little, less annoyed and more amused, as I realise that she wants to play fetch. Glancing at my forgotten sketchbook, I bite my lip nervously, but a whine and insistent nudge breaks down the rest of my reluctance. Besides, I need a break anyways, right? Still not entirely sure, I half-heartedly toss the pencil into the middle of the room, away from Kal and them.
Almost immediately, Feri sprints after it. I can't help but giggle in a less-than-masculine manner as she trips over her clumsy paws, and I don't miss the way Kal looks at me with a stupidly great smile that makes me feel weirdly giddy. Probably blushing, I focus on the puppy barreling towards me, pencil carried with surprising gentleness, and as she rams into my chest, I fall back with a grunt and a breathless laugh.
“Feri, be careful!” Kal admonishes from across the room. Feri whines apologetically and licks my face with a pathetic expression, and I carefully sit up with her still on my chest, which aches with the force of her hit. Holding back a grimace, I shift her off of me, and she follows as I move to sit by Kal.
“Hey,” I awkwardly greet as I settle down beside him. He smiles at me warmly, and I smile back shyly, feeling uncharacteristically unsure and out of my element. Feri quickly distracts me, though, and I can't help but giggle again as she almost jealousy places herself in my lap.
“I think she likes you more than me,” Kal points out with a slight laugh. I can only nod and look down at the canine in my lap. She drops the pencil again, and I throw it a little further away, laughing again as she clumsily chases after it. The nikeri suddenly pops his head out from Kal’s shirt and looks over at me, letting out a little yip as he leans over and licks my face, and suddenly, I find myself covered in dogs as they rush to greet me.
“Kal! Help,” I whine, struggling under a pie of fluff. The jerk simply laughs and watches me get bathed in saliva, and after a few seconds, my protests devolve into laughter. For the rest of the day, I push away my stresses and worries to just enjoy the moment, and by the end of it all, I'm exhausted. Unbelievably happy, yes, but also pretty much dead. Groaning tiredly, I look up at Kal with a pleading expression.
“Don’t want to get up?” Kal asks knowingly, and I sleepily nod, mouth opening wide in a massive yawn that also forces my eyes shut. When I reopen them, Kal has moved startlingly close, but all I feel is a tired sense of comfort, even as he slips his arms under me. Already falling asleep, I allow my eyes to shut and just enjoy the feeling of him.
As I fall asleep, ideas for the project dance through my head. Forcing my eyes open, I look over at Kal, who sits on his bed across from me and seems to be admiring the scene before him.
“Thank you, Kal. For everything,” I sleepily but seriously tell him as I fall asleep. A warm body, probably Feri, squirms under my arms and distracts me from Kal's response, and I fall asleep before I can question him about it. Oh well, it probably wasn't important, I think. With the memories of this winter day dancing in my dreams, I sleep peacefully, Kal’s warm smile causing a giddy feeling even in sleep.
Unfortunately, the moment lasts for only a short while. A few minutes after he walks away, I hear a very distinctive sound, one that makes me scramble to securely put up my project and wipe my face and eyes free of any evidence of my small moment of weakness.
The hounds have been released. Not actual hunting hounds, of course, but rather a group of puppies from different species Kal is raising for his class. Six of them, to specific. To specify even further, there's a rambunctious aktili, an even rougher aktili izren, a destructively curious sikar, a nikeri that doesn't know the meaning of personal space, a zaikron without any concept of gentle, and, finally, a “cozily warm” rekzin that’s not quite fully in control of its temperature yet.
It's hell. I mean, really, it's not nearly as bad as the first time a few weeks ago, but it's still pretty bad. Especially because it got super cold this past week, so we can't really take them outside and let them run off their energy like usual. It also doesn't help that this is the first time since it got cold that we’re going to have more than one with us.
Damn it, why didn't I listen to Kal? Guilt and frustration swirl around my stomach as I hurry to puppy-proof the room, and by the time Ferinium, the aktili izren, runs in, I’ve only managed to get about three-fourths of the way through. With a not-so-quiet groan of frustration, I accept the rough but loving licks from the iron-plated and colored pup.
“I'm sorry, Alexio. I tried to find a good time to warn you, but you just seemed so stressed,” Kal, worried, appears in the doorway as the rest of the pack streams in. Tiredly observing the chaos already occurring, I offer him a lopsided smile and shrug nonchalantly to hide the fact that I'm internally freaking out. I can't do this, how can I do this? I'm going to fail, but I can't fail! If I fail, they might kick me out of the Academy or I won't be able to get a good job and I'll be separated from Kal forever!
“It's okay. I mean, this is part of your grade,” I try to reassure him, but my voice comes out sounding tight and very stressed while tears of frustration begin to pool up in my eyes. Cursing under my breath, I rush out an apology and push past Kal. His hand wraps around my arm in an attempt to keep me in the room, probably so he can apologize, but all it does is make me freak out more. Suppressing a scream, I yank my arm away from him and hurriedly lock myself in a bathroom.
“Alexio! Please!” Kal calls through the door. Hearing his voice, frantic and worried, just adds more turmoil to the storm brewing inside my head. Silent in my suffering, I pace the short length of the bathroom, and as bad as I feel for ignoring Kal, I know that if I respond I'll snap and hurt him even more.
Kismus, help me. Swallowing thickly around the ball in my throat, I run a hand through my hair and grip the counter tightly, and as I try to take deep, steady breaths, the world around me fades.
In. Out. In. Out. You're okay, Alexio, you're fine. Letting a shaky breath, I reopen my eyes, which I hadn't even realized I closed in the first place, and carefully let go of the counter. My fingers protest a little, and I grimace. I hadn't realized I had been gripping so tightly, whoops. Wiping my face clean of any stress tears, I cautiously open the bathroom door. Almost immediately, Kal jumps up and stares at me with his one working eye, and I freeze.
Oh, Kismus, what do I do? What do I say? The stress from before comes crashing down on me once again as I run a hand through my already messy hair, and all of a sudden, I find myself about to collapse in a pathetic, crying ball once again. Kal seems to sense this, judging by the panicked look on his face.
Before I can retreat back into the safety of the bathroom, though, a pair of warm arms wrap around me. My first reaction is to freak out, but the natural and soothing warmth of Kal spreads through me and relaxes my muscles.
Unfortunately, it also reminds me how badly I treated him, and I end up crying harder against his chest. He carefully guides me into our room, and even when the crying subsides, I continue to shamefully hide my face in his chest.
“Alexio, it's okay. You're allowed to cry, you know,” Kal mumbles, but he doesn't try to force me to let go or look at him. I can feel and hear the pups getting a little rowdy around us, though, so I reluctantly pull myself away from him. A coldness washes over me, which I pretend is because of the open window and cool weather, and to further distract myself from the new but equally stressful emotions, I dig out one of my old, incomplete sketchbooks and settle down on my bed, which has already been claimed by Feri.
Suddenly, I remember that I have yet to respond to Kal. As Feri squirms her way into my lap, I look up with the intention of responding to Kal, but I get distracted by the sight of him playing with the other pups. The aktili and sikar yip excitedly as they play with his tail, the nikeri seems to be steadily working himself into Kal’s shirt, and, finally, the last two chase a ball that Kal throws.
He looks so… happy. I find myself entranced by the expression of pure joy he holds as he bonds with the pups, and a smile matching his slips onto my face. A bark from Feri snaps me back into reality, though. I tear my eyes away from the scene to look down at the brown and grey pup. She holds my pencil gently between her teeth, and as my eyes meet hers, she drops the pencil and nudges it towards me.
“Of course,” I sigh a little, less annoyed and more amused, as I realise that she wants to play fetch. Glancing at my forgotten sketchbook, I bite my lip nervously, but a whine and insistent nudge breaks down the rest of my reluctance. Besides, I need a break anyways, right? Still not entirely sure, I half-heartedly toss the pencil into the middle of the room, away from Kal and them.
Almost immediately, Feri sprints after it. I can't help but giggle in a less-than-masculine manner as she trips over her clumsy paws, and I don't miss the way Kal looks at me with a stupidly great smile that makes me feel weirdly giddy. Probably blushing, I focus on the puppy barreling towards me, pencil carried with surprising gentleness, and as she rams into my chest, I fall back with a grunt and a breathless laugh.
“Feri, be careful!” Kal admonishes from across the room. Feri whines apologetically and licks my face with a pathetic expression, and I carefully sit up with her still on my chest, which aches with the force of her hit. Holding back a grimace, I shift her off of me, and she follows as I move to sit by Kal.
“Hey,” I awkwardly greet as I settle down beside him. He smiles at me warmly, and I smile back shyly, feeling uncharacteristically unsure and out of my element. Feri quickly distracts me, though, and I can't help but giggle again as she almost jealousy places herself in my lap.
“I think she likes you more than me,” Kal points out with a slight laugh. I can only nod and look down at the canine in my lap. She drops the pencil again, and I throw it a little further away, laughing again as she clumsily chases after it. The nikeri suddenly pops his head out from Kal’s shirt and looks over at me, letting out a little yip as he leans over and licks my face, and suddenly, I find myself covered in dogs as they rush to greet me.
“Kal! Help,” I whine, struggling under a pie of fluff. The jerk simply laughs and watches me get bathed in saliva, and after a few seconds, my protests devolve into laughter. For the rest of the day, I push away my stresses and worries to just enjoy the moment, and by the end of it all, I'm exhausted. Unbelievably happy, yes, but also pretty much dead. Groaning tiredly, I look up at Kal with a pleading expression.
“Don’t want to get up?” Kal asks knowingly, and I sleepily nod, mouth opening wide in a massive yawn that also forces my eyes shut. When I reopen them, Kal has moved startlingly close, but all I feel is a tired sense of comfort, even as he slips his arms under me. Already falling asleep, I allow my eyes to shut and just enjoy the feeling of him.
As I fall asleep, ideas for the project dance through my head. Forcing my eyes open, I look over at Kal, who sits on his bed across from me and seems to be admiring the scene before him.
“Thank you, Kal. For everything,” I sleepily but seriously tell him as I fall asleep. A warm body, probably Feri, squirms under my arms and distracts me from Kal's response, and I fall asleep before I can question him about it. Oh well, it probably wasn't important, I think. With the memories of this winter day dancing in my dreams, I sleep peacefully, Kal’s warm smile causing a giddy feeling even in sleep.